By Andrikkos

100 MINUS ONE

I have only 92 words left to live. After this, there will be but 85. Shall I be flamboyant, go out with a flourish? Call you my mavourneen as we enjoy drink supernaculum? You say I shouldn’t speak at all anymore; you’ve decided quiet, I might not be so bad to have around. Thinking twice, even thrice about putting a foot in my mouth, causing the other shoe to drop; ah, my demise awaits 23 missteps away! The old woman called it a curse, but death is not the curse, it’s the choosing the last word to die on.