Allison Wyper

I’d like to die of a brain aneurism, mid-flight in a hang glider swooping off a cliff toward the sea, so that the last thing I feel is the sensation of soaring like a hawk, but I don’t have to feel myself drown, because I’ve always been afraid of dark water and I don’t think I should be burdened with having to slay those psychological demons on my last moments on earth. Instead, I want to be that badass 96 year old white lady hang gliding over the ocean in a gold swimsuit, while her hot young lover watches from the cliffs and cries out in agony as she is swept away into the sea, her body never recovered. My friends will drink a case of really good bourbon to toast my memory in the lush tropical courtyard of my villa, that they will collectively inherit and turn into a communal retreat and performance space for artists.