As I sit in line behind all the other dead mice waiting to see if they are going to mouse heaven or mouse hell, I have been contemplating what my life meant. I realized the way I died, trying to eat a piece of perfectly aged extra-sharp cheddar cheese while a fast-moving piece of metal trapped my body against a slab of wood, is a metaphor for how life really is.

You must live with the cheese you choose. Even though, technically, I’m no longer living, I think you can get the gist of what I’m saying. Early on in my life, when I was only 30 days old, I knocked up my wife, Genna. I know Genna constantly cheated on me and I’m sure only about 100 of the 250 kids she claims are mine actually are, but you know what? She was the cheese I chose. The only mouse that I can be angry with is myself.

When I decided to move our family from the suburbs to the inner city, I had no idea that laboratories were going to steal half of my children and use them for experiments. I had to live with that cheese of a decision… and I did. Actually, it ended up being the best thing that happened to our family. I have no idea what we would have done had I had to feed another 100 mice bodies. We probably would have had to resort to some form of cannibalism.

On the night of my death, I didn’t even have to enter the human apartment building I’d end up dying in. It’s just that I had decided to try and spice up my marriage a little bit, so I was looking for the perfect cheese for our romantic night together. Of course I found it right under the refrigerator, but because it was dark I didn’t see what it was attached to. There it is with the choices again. I had the chance to be cautious, but instead… SNAP! My life is over.

So what do my ramblings, sent from a mouse afterlife, have to do with you? I’m really not sure. I guess it could be you have to live with the cheese you choose. Or the point could be to make sure you check the cheese and ensure that it isn’t a fucking trap.