My Final Buttery Letter

What would you want for yourself when you are about to meet the end? Do you hope to finish off your bucket list items or pass softly, quietly on your own? I was unable to complete most of my bucket list, due to the fact that I am a stick of butter with no legs, arms, or central nervous system. I also was unable to enjoy peace and quiet, due to the fact that I was unceremoniously placed on a plate in a sunny room. A camera was aimed down at me, leering, waiting. I wasn't quite sure what to think as the human who had set me down walked out of the room and left me alone. But then, I heard it. The sound of my phone blowing up.

There were so many people watching me on Instagram. They were commenting hundreds of kind messages about my yellow, shining body that I would have blushed if I could. I found myself warming at their comments until some folks began to worry about my health. As a stick of butter, the scariest thing we can think of is our slow heat death. But to be surrounded by so many people, it was just too dang nice. I began to melt.

Then, one person called out, his name should be Bernard B. Butters. I was shocked. I had never thought of naming myself. As soon as I saw the comment, I was overjoyed. The commenters spammed my name endlessly. I have to say, it inflated my ego quite a bit. Soon after this development, others began to worship me. Me, little old buttery me. I was flabbergasted. I'd hazard a guess that no other stick of butter has been so lucky to have so many devoted fans all at once. It felt like my insides were full of butterflies instead of churned milk.

Then the person came back in and ended my livestream. I felt cold all of a sudden. Without my new friends and followers, I felt empty inside. Never had I wanted to have friends, but once they were gone, I felt like I lost a part of myself. The person didn't seem to care, as they carried me back to my old home, the kitchen, and put me into a lit up box. They turned it on and I spun around for a few hot moments. It was like one of those saunas I had heard about on Tik Tok. But then I was out again and back on the table. To my surprise, the livestream began again! My friends and followers flooded back in to check on me. It warmed my insides even more.

So many people asked how I was feeling and were angry at the person for "microwaving" me. I decided that I would try to avoid that activity in the future, but wasn't quite sure how to. My fans continued to stay by my side as I felt myself begin to truly soften. It was a beautiful day to die; I could see the clouds passing on a brilliant, blue sky outside. The person had turned on smooth jazz, then synth music, and finally settled on the sounds of nature. As far as ways to meet my buttery end, this one was quite preferred over that of a frying pan.

Against my wishes, the stream ended three more times and I was "microwaved" thrice. Each time, my loving followers prayed for my safe keeping. They offered money, their time, and their souls to be able to save me. I was more than flattered at this point. Never had I been shown such love. I wanted to repay my viewers somehow, so on what I thought would be our final viewing, I convinced the person filming me to let me live a little longer. I had to show my followers my final resting spot. I wanted them to know about my PhD dissertation on the ethical mining of space butter, so the person graciously tucked it beneath me. I also wanted to share my final views of the world with them. The trees, the sky, and the gentle curtains that framed the world so nicely.

If you happen to be one of the people who saw me today and stopped in to say hello, thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my buttery heart. You helped make me the happiest stick of butter in the whole history of the world.

Love,

Bernard B. Butters