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Just one more piece today and no more, I promise. I won't have any more ever. Let me have just one. Please. I don't have to listen to you, not really. I'm the master of my own fate, aren't I? I am. I'll go to the fridge, then?
No. I don't want a cold piece. I want a fresh one. Besides, I was saving that one for later. But not so late that a guest comes and opens the fridge. No. Then I'd have to kill him. Or her. Hehe. Whatever it is.
Just a piece, then.
Alright. I'll take a fresh one. I will. Watch me. Then I'll take the sharpest, cleanest knife from the kitchen and cut it in one go, quickly. By that time, my mouth will be watering and I'd be dying to slurp it up but I'd wait.
Should I salt it? Or should I cook it? Spice it? Sprinkle sugar?
It'll take too much time to decide, as always. So I'll just have it raw, trying hard not to gulp down the crunchy bone and the chewy phalange.
Only then will I turn to look at my dripping hand, apply some ointment, put bandage, and sit down to count the number of fingers I have left.
I can only do it six more times.

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