Ahem
A police description of Wynie Winters, as told by an officer who has been to the scene of the great cookie dough heist of 2026 (of which you're now an accessory):
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"5'8" Female, red hair.. The store owner said she was almost blinded at how pale the woman was, so I put her down as caucasian.
Mid to late 30s, approx weight 200lbs, but she was carrying A LOT of cookie dough.
She was last seen wearing black framed glasses, a grey hoodie sweater, black leggings, and black slip-on vans sneakers.
I can't emphasize this enough, she was carrying possibly her full body weight in cookie dough."
 
Later
After I've been apprehended, and the cookie dough scrubbed from my face and hands so I could be properly identified and processed, the arresting officer would stand with a pile of my personal belongings. A tower of room temperature cookie dough; a pack of Marlboro Gold 100s with matching gold lighter; iPhone with a debit card and driver's license tucked in the case..
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He would stop his fondling of my personal effects to study my ID.
'The resting bitch face is real with this one,' he would think.
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And as he scanned the information for any insight into who was sitting in the interrogation room before him, he might pause at certain points he always checked..
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He probably wouldn't care that I need these black framed glasses (for everything), but it's good to know I wasn't trying to keep them for shanking purposes alone; and, he wouldn't care that I'm registered as an organ donor.
Actually, he wouldn't see either of those details because his eyes would snap straight to the word printed in the bottom right corner, "Veteran."
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Mind made up of who I am based on that one word would have him tossing my ID back on the stainless steel table with my other possessions.​​
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He would have missed it though..
My story wouldn't be lurking behind any of those details, not in what I did with my life or what I plan on doing with my body when it's over.
The story is in my address. My little apartment is the place I always want to go to, and never want to leave. The hub of a very small life.
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After they let me sweat (jokes on them, I'm always sweating), he would step into the spartan room and sit across from me.
He would ask about my work.. Do I tell him I write?
It would explain why I couldn't just buy the cookie dough.
He would offer me a phone call.. but who do I call? Can I have his number?
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A  light would flicker on behind his jaded and tired eyes as he began to comprehend what he had missed before.
'She's a weirdo.'
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And so I was institutionalized, the end.
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Love, 
Wynie Winters
The Recluse of Romance​​​