Uma looked down at her hands, the lettuce leaf she held between them. It was green, the colour of forgotten meadows in a long summer and crisp as the biting winter air of Pluto's closest moon, Charon, which has an average estimated temperature of -220 degrees Celsius. Not that Uma would know this with how wretchedly she'd failed school. Uma was very much like a tree – unable to do schoolwork and with a hard coating of bark.
Uma set down the lettuce to be cut, reaching for the knife. One would think after having spent a large part of her life cooking she would be able to cut up a piece of lettuce without incident, but alas, this was Uma. She picked up the knife blade first and just stared as blood started to run down her hand in mild confusion, her synapses flashing erratically as she tried to figure out why her hand was hurt. It took her five minutes and thirty three seconds to make the link, at which point she dropped the knife. "Dammit," she hissed, or at least she would have if anyone in this story spoke like a normal human being. In reality she made a noise akin to a tapir's mating call and repeated the last few words someone had spoken to her. Uma was able to remember words of up to five letters, and this was usually considered her greatest strength.
Uma cried a similar noise when she looked down at the green organic life form resting on the table like Baby Jesus resting in his manger if Baby Jesus was a piece of lettuce. Having no object permanence, Uma was unable to figure out where the knife had gone and was thus unsure how to proceed with cutting the lettuce. She stared at it through her thick spectacles like an unusually ugly owl. Did salads even need lettuce? A quick Google search revealed to the author of this erotic fanfiction masterpiece that Indian salads feature vegetables such as tomatoes and cucumbers, and so the lettuce transformed itself into a tomato right in front of Uma's eyes. Uma didn't have a good grasp of colour or shape so it made little difference to her.
This did nothing to help her problem. Uma was still stuck trying to cut a tomato without a knife, and it was very distressing to her. She rocked gently on her heels, crying out and muttering in front of the little piece of fruit, so spherical and rubicund and syrupy and whatever other misused synonyms will make this description seem smart. She fell into another of her fits, and the blackness of the world around her made her feel as though she was drowning, as though her whole life was simply a drawn out metaphor for her drowning. What she didn't realize, however, was that due to the catastrophe that was Global Warming, Uma was underwater in a flooded house and actually drowning. She didn't give much of a fight against the water invading her lungs when she was unconscious, and it was almost like her brain willingly shut down after spending so long plodding along in life. The water bloated and twisted her corpse beyond recognition, but let's be honest, who would have cared to distinguish whether she was missing or dead anyway? She couldn't even make a fucking salad.
