the matchstick

once upon an imaginary time, there was a matchstick. nothing wonderful or fascinating could be said about him; he was just like the others in the box, except that he often dreamt of being a medical tool, like a scalpel or a syringe. as a victim of the circumstances that convoluted his very existence, he never had the liberation to observe personal hygiene. thus, he developed a dandruff problem, and his condition was rapidly deteriorating.

one day, it got the better of him, and after countless attempts to fight off the urge of scratching his head, temptation triumphed over sensibility. consequently, it took just one fateful scrape to spark off a combustion which eradicated the whole box of matches.

as divine as interventions come, our little matchstick survived and was rushed to the hospital for treatment, re-emerging as none other than a cotton bud, one of the most germane inventions to the cause of personal hygiene! however, survivor guilt threw him over the edge of sanity, and following little contemplation, he abruptly ended his life by leaping into a bottle of alcohol.

the moral of the story is that sometimes forsaking rationale might be a means to a solution, if only you manage to afford the costs and survive the consequences. if you can't, then drinking won't help you; it'll only kill you.