spontaneous combustion.

I often times hope that I am on the verge of spontaneous combustion. Every slight gurgle of the stomach or uncomfortable air pocket rising in the throat makes me cross my fingers and close my eyes.
I whisper under my breath, prayers to whoever may answer them: "please let this be the time."
It would be a fortunate turn of events I suppose. I would just be sitting at my desk, feet reclined on the visitor's chair, reading my paper at any moment of the day. Then, suddenly I would look down at my watch as I brought my right hand up to clutch my chest."I shouldn't have gotten that second burrito," I would think to myself just before I expired.
Suddenly, a red flash in the corner cubicle, and then I would be gone.
People would look for me I suppose, mainly the man on the other side of my retractable wall.
Following the initial explosion, he would reel back on his chair, thudding with each turn of the wheels backward, and then a clicking sound would resonate as he slid off the plastic carpet protector as he would peer curiously around the divider.
He would crane his neck, looking to see and would be greeted by nothing more than a smoldering chair covered in dirt, the plastic melting slightly as red flames would flicker hopelessly around the surface of the chair.
As I imagine it, I would like to think he would just slide forward, getting back to work, not minding what had just occurred on the other side of his stockade. He could possibly open his black book, cross out my information, and make a note to write the obituary before next Monday's paper submission dead-line.
However, I know in this real modern world, there would be a fire extinguisher that would function terribly due to poor maintenance, but in the end it would get the job done well enough to serve it's duty. They would then scoop my ashes, along with some unavoidable debris and prepare to move on.
I would be transported in a small container, possibly Tupperware, all crammed in with the little pits of plastic that had been a victim of my disintegration process.
There would be tears and beers and all manner of other festivities. The flower market would become drastically saturated with business, and retail stores would have trouble keeping any black items on their shelves. Intricate eulogies and obituaries would be written, and then, after a formidable Friends and Relatives Urn-Mantle World Tour, I would be dumped over the third base line at Fenway Park during the following October. This small act of vandalism would be committed by a man in a long green trench coat, and would be preformed as discreetly as possible. I assure you, this is how it would go.
However, there have been very few substantiated cases of spontaneous combustion, so I can only keep dreaming that one day I will become completely engulfed in flames.