" Now, before we cut we study the specimen. What can you tell me about this pig, Miss Owens?"

What could I tell him about the pig? Seriously? He was little, pink and soon to be removed of all his organs. It was a dismal fate, so I created a better one. "He was the smallest in his litter. His brothers and sisters climbed over him to get to their mama's milk. They called him piglet five, but he thought of himself as Peter. He had dreams to father hundreds of piglets, to live his life slopping around in the mud and to die fat and happy. Life had other plans. They came at night ..."

"Miss Owens!"

And the story was just getting good.

"It's a fetal pig. It was never born."

"I know, but it seems wrong to dissect him without at least giving him a story. I mean we could raise a glass for his sacrifice, but you're not allowed to serve alcohol to minors." I leaned closer and added, "But I won't tell if you won't"

What the hell was wrong with me? Did one slip slowly into madness or did it happen fast? "

― L.A. Fiore , Our Unscripted Story