-- Here’s a little piece I whipped up in a giddy mood. Pretty much every one of these assertions has been disproved or discounted by science. So don’t worry. --

My grandmother always told me that standing too close to the microwave would scramble my brain. That admonition in mind, I busied myself by sorting the mail as my Hot Pocket sizzled to itself in the deathtrap. I tossed out two credit card offers and a reminder to call my orthodontist before freeing my lunch.

Personally, I’ve always wondered if radiating my food was the smartest move. But before I can work up to conspiracy-level worry, I remember how long the oven takes to preheat and the unpronounceable ingredients listed in illegible type on the box. If ethoxylated mono and diglyceride dough conditioners haven’t harmed me yet, I don’t think some puny electromagnetic rays will have much affect.

As I popped open a can of Diet Coke, I remember my brother’s friendly warning about how aspartame becomes formaldehyde when metabolized. And then causes lesions of the brain, inducing seizures. Since the microwave hasn’t gotten me yet, I haven’t worried about the latter. But I’m intrigued by the thought of slow mummification. Will my organs be in greater demand because of their remarkable preservation? Or will I be kicked onto a college anatomy table, dissected once or thrice? I’ve always liked being useful.

For dessert, I resorted to the suburban favorite: the Oreo. As the chocolate cookie part dissolved delectably into milk, I remembered the article my father cited last week: growth hormones added to my 2 percent were speeding my development. This was supposed to damage my psyche by generating an early sexuality that I couldn’t deal with. Really, I thought that MTV killed that possibility decades ago.

The Oreo itself couldn’t simply be an innocent purveyor of chocolaty goodness. My best friend fervently believed that the white crème accreted gleefully in stomachs, not digesting for two full years. My cousin informed me that gum has the upper hand: it sticks around for seven. The thought of the resultant conglomeration gave me the shivers. I still swallowed gum, though. I didn’t want to litter.

I rinsed my dishes and put them in the dishwasher, trying not to think of the rampaging conquest of body rot (or embalming) going on. Everyone has to die of something. Whether my wits are knocked loose by a wayward death-ray, or a wad of Trident permanently blocks my colon, I don’t know. But I warn you, a world without crème sandwich cookies isn’t worth living in.