After my usual power breakfast of half a cupcake and a slice of pie, I was licking the crumbs and icing off the knife when it occurred to me that what I was doing was actually very dangerous*. Like, a tiny slip of my hand or my head just bobbing to one side–because I really, rilly like this song!–could lead to me severing my own tongue and choking on my own blood or bleeding to death. Through the mouth.
There are endless stupid scenarios that come with the perils of being home alone, but given how much I like pastry and how clumsy I am, the chances of my death at my own hand are not too small.
I imagine the people at my funeral. There’s my sister, still reeling from having to clean up the mess I made of my face and in her kitchen. I’ll also owe her a fortune for having to fly back to the Philippines to bury my ass. I probably bled all over her cats, too.
And there are all my nearest and dearest, who aside from being overwhelmed with sadness at my sudden death, are probably also wondering how, just how did a girl who managed to cut her own tongue off even live to be 28?
*it was a very large knife
Alice Sarmiento 
Lets be real. No one’s flying your body back to the Philippines. They will cremate your tongueless body and ship your ashes.
My death scenario? Something completely unforeseen, like an aneurysm. There are no cats to eat me before I am discovered. But my roommates will probably freak out when they find me on the toilet, or hunched over the stove, or sitting on the couch still watching Scrubs.
I’m really feeling the love, Pol. In a perfect world though, I would be stuffed and posed so that final photographs can be taken with me “holding” my cats in my lap.
Hmm…I think it should be more like this.