How To Even…Be A Pal, Bake A Cake, And Then End A Blog On The Somewhat Wholesome But Still Silly Note That Your Readers Have Come To Expect And Cherish
You wake up. It’s either Wednesday or Saturday. If it’s Wednesday you’re screwed because you’re supposed to be in Puerta Vallarta getting married, which you are clearly not. Where you clearly are is a city alley in winter lying on top of a partially deflated sex doll and empty cans of Tusker lager.
Your memories of the night before are as hazy as the ingredient list in a cup of gas station chili. How did you get here? No idea. Whose suspenders are you wearing? No idea. Why aren’t you wearing anything else except for the bottom half of pink bunny costume? No idea. But the mask is lying beside you, and, after you’ve put it on, you realize it’s full of vomit which may or may not be yours.
You have no wallet, cellphone, keys, or anything else. You do remember who you are, though: you’re Timmy. Beyond that, all bets are off.
You stagger to your feet and look around. There’s a bus pass on the ground which may be yours. There’s the aforementioned bunny costume head. There’s a rat with a smirk who clearly thinks it’s better than you. You can’t really argue with it, at this point.
There’s also a pile of ashes and some bits of plastic. One of them is a partial picture of you. You realize it’s what’s left of your drivers license, which has been burned until that bit is all that’s left. There’s another bit that’s clearly your burned credit card. The rest of the ashes are indistinguishable.
That’s when it hits you what must’ve happened. You’ve finally done it. After years of talking about it, you’ve finally faked your own death. No more putting up with your boss’s bullshit like “you have to wear pants to work here” and “stop crying in front of customers, it freaks everyone out.” No more dealing with your significant other’s demands that you “please for the love of God stop drinking syrup out of the pitcher” when you’re having breakfast out. You’re going to miss…