That was a Good Life

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