My sister poisoned me. I had some bad food and now I’m going to die.
My professor said starting stories and not finishing them was the fastest way to the grave. He made us promise to give every story an ending, no matter how much we wanted to step on the brakes and toss the entire thing in the trash.
The last story I wrote ended with:
“Do you think you’re Margaret Atwood? Fuck this story! THE END.”
But I guess he was right, because now I’m dying from food poisoning. I’m only nineteen. I’ve never been to Italy. I won’t ever get to take a picture where I pretend to be holding up the Leaning Tower of Pisa. Shit. It’s such an original idea as well.
I was going to get so many Instagram likes.