Update:

I have a piece of bread lodged in my gums in the very back of my mouth. Normally I wouldn't be so crass as to, well, post about it, but I'm making an exception to my decency rule. Mainly because it's been plaguing me for a week and a half.

Understand, dear reader, that it's not really bread. I suppose I would more concisely express myself if I were to say that it's a piece of a chip. Flatbrød is traditional Norwegian fare, and it's basically a wheat chip the size of a piece of paper. A slice of bread paper. I don't know, eloquence fails me. Like this but much more menacing

I was not opposed to the idea of bread paper. I found it delicious and oh so fun to play with. That was until I discovered that it is, in all intents and purposes, whole grain shrapnel. I wish I was joking. This sliver of, well, a sliver of a slice of a sheet of bread, is lost to the deepest crevasse of my mouth. I have never been more vexed in my life.

Wouldn't it be something if I were to die at the hands of something I couldn't even describe? How horrid! Just think; no bitingly witty elegies, no eulogies rife with carb puns. Nothing. How is one supposed to draft a satiric will about a sliver of a slice of a sheet of bread?