I was cooking when I learned how I’d die. Not even cooking with sharp knives, either. I wasn’t julienning radishes with a fancy fuck-off knife set that I pretend to sharpen in front of dinner guests to classily convey that, for me, concocting a gourmet meal is as easy as scrambling eggs.That’s not what I was doing. My knives are from Target. But since you mentioned it, I was indeed scramblin’ some eggs. And that’s when I had my death premonition (edit: prophecy.)
So, it’s my kitchen, right, and I’m there and the eggs are there. Things are going well. They’re bubbling along, turning from snot into yellow fluff and I’m sprinkling a pinch of salt wondering how we all got so into putting our fingers all over the salt, lately. What happened to shakers? And, like, hygiene? The age of little wooden boxes full of flaked sea salt is here and dead is the shaker - a once powerful tool for self expression. A landmark. Without a shaker shaped like a penguin wearing sunglasses, how else would we know that we are, in fact, at the beach house and should get the fuck outside for some chill-ass fun, pronto? The answer is, we wouldn’t.
So, okay. The one hand’s a-sprinklin’, the other hand a-spatula-ing. And, in a moment of salt-related negligence, I scrape the pan too hard. A teeny, clear piece of teflon floats up, away from the pan, carried on waves of heat and magic, to hang in the air over the eggs. I swipe at it, sending it down, down, down where it nestles on sweaty yellow clouds. It dissolves, instantly.
I know this for sure because I stab around trying to find it for a full minute. No luck. The eggs, the teflon - they are now one. I stare blankly. These aren’t eggs anymore. This is poison.
And as I sit, eating the poison, here come the visions of all the cells in my body joining together like, “LET’S FUCK THIS BITCH UUUUPPPP.” Complex medical terms from high school health class float to consciousness, terms like “rapid mutation” and “metastasize” and “cancer.” I conclude that I definitely have all of those.
The visions morph into my future children by my death bed, their faces a mixture of anguish and adoration. “Why is the world so cruel? Why must mother die?” They sob. And Future-Me is like, “Don’t weep, my darlings.” (Quick note: Future-Me is very British and very rich.) “This is simply God’s plan for us!“
I lie my ass off. With my dying breaths I lie right to their rich little British faces knowing full well that my death wasn’t caused by God, but that shitty breakfast I made. Could I have thrown it away and started over? Yeah. Was I about to waste the egg money? Fuck. You.
And as I shush their whimpers and pat their downy Anglican heads, I think to myself, ‘Your mother chose 49 cents over watching you grow up.’
Then I close my eyes and die.