Character Limit: I'm a Cornish Pasty

A short insight into the mind of a pasty, and the nature of his existential crisis.

It’s hard being a Cornish pasty. I have psoriasis but when my skin flakes away it delights some who lick their lips like I’m a piece of meat. My insides I believe are composed of good quality beef skirt, chunks of potato and thinly sliced onion. To me that sounds right delicious, but it worries me that’s the case as I’m terrified people will want to eat me. Me old Ma used to chat about our Cornish identity. She was quite the intellectual with a penchant for reading academic books. She used to say one of her favourites was this concept of ‘Imagined Communities’ by Benedict Anderson. She was always asking what it was that made us Cornish when, for instance, my cousin was from Yorkshire and had to be called a Yorkshire pasty despite having the exact same insides and outsides as us. I used to nod and smile but I didn’t really understand and to me it didn’t feel all that pressing. At least not as pressing as the fact that we could be ate any moment and was subjected to a merry-go-round of hungry tradesmen eying us up as if we was their lunch, or a piece of meat, and not meat covered in a flakey piece of pastry with sentiments of fear and happiness and with the usual money worries so prevalent in this modern world. That was what bothered me. Is there really room for intellectual thought and musings when death is daily staring you in the face and you’ll be lucky just to make it to the end of the day without becoming lunch for one of them walking pasties with the meat on the outside and the pasties on the inside?