But was it the last cookie?

Was it real?

Maybe in my haste my life has already passed and I’m in a state of fugue/no fugue. A place where I no longer exist except as a spark in someone’s synapse, a pulse in someone’s thought.

Mayhap then, my cookie-and by dint of linear intelligence, myself; had never existed at all. Perhaps even the thought of me is merely a fancy, a trick of someone’s imagination.

That, in all these years of so called existence I have been nothing other than a fantasy, fiction of the most boring and vile—an utter waste of futile time and space. An image that some alien being has created solely for the purpose of scaring blue blob-like readers with tales of bipedal horrors.

But no, I rationalize; this cannot be so because how could I imagine myself as but a thought, when I am thought itself. How can I think without being? How can a thought create a thought like me. Pink, soft and sprawly.

And thus a great truth has dawned itself upon me.

I’m pink therefore I’m Spam.