I can practically bring myself to tears with morbid fantasies. When a TV commercial aired for a movie about someone getting buried alive, I immediately pictured myself meeting such a fate. I tried to reason that of all the people I had ever known, and all the people each of them had ever known, I had never heard of anyone getting buried alive. The odds were against it. I mentioned this fright of going to my grave with a heartbeat to my friend Sally who told me Victorians were often buried with a cord in their hands that was attached to a bell above ground, so the person could ring in the event of an error. A doorbell in reverse.
It’s not that I am devoid of positive fantasies. I sometimes imagine meeting Mr. Right and living blissfully into old age. Somehow, though, getting buried alive seems likelier.