My name is Gale Hawthorne.
I enjoyed my life like any other teenager, but death came to me at a very early age, and I regret to say that it was a rather simple death.
The cause of my death was suffocation. I was not strangled by my lover over infidelity or anything like that—I wasn't that interesting to women.
I simply ate a giant burrito in my room, where I usually created crazy things.
I was eating a giant burrito that appeared from time to time on the Internet. It had so many ingredients that it was ridiculous to think it would taste good when combined, so I toasted it a bit and used sauces to take away some of the dryness.
Although I made sure to chew well before swallowing, the dough of the burrito's tortilla stuck to my tongue, which caused me to suffocate.
I must admit that it was partly my fault, since I was eating a damn giant burrito while reading, so it was probably inevitable to die that way.
Things got bloodier when I tried to open my throat to breathe. I didn't calculate the cut properly and pierced where I shouldn't have.
Well, better to die that way than by trying to do nothing. In any case, I did what I could.
You might think I was an idiot, that I did something ridiculous, but believe me, I tried everything.
Although I kept my interaction with my neighbors to a minimum, I was at my neighbor's entrance, frantically ringing the doorbell and violently banging on the door of his apartment.
Unfortunately, the two neighbors I used to talk to were not there.
Gripped by panic, I forgot where I had left my cell phone, and it's not like I remembered exactly what the emergency number was.
Was it 912? Or was it supposed to be 911?
I should have contacted them first before going to ask my neighbors for help. But speaking would have been impossible—they wouldn't have understood me.
And now, in a pool of my own blood, the ideas I never managed to realize flooded my mind.
I thought: what would those brilliant geniuses of humanity's golden ages have done?
And without ever knowing the answer, I died silently.