The day that I found out when I’m going to die started normally. I filled out my Death Clock health profile (height, weight, allergies, family medical history, daily sugar and alcohol intake, and so on) and let the app know when my oldest grandparent died (in her 90s.) I detailed how I rarely sleep more than seven hours per night (I have a toddler) but how I do cardio every day (again, I have a toddler.)
In other words, I gave all of my information to a faceless AI app being run from Silicon Valley. Then I signed up for the blood test. The date of death was decided before the bloodwork — 83 years old, with a “worst case scenario” of 50 and a stretch goal of 104.5 — and announced with an image of a little cartoon Grim Reaper reclining on a donut-shaped inner tube, grinning out the screen as he flashed a victory sign with his skeleton fingers.
