You know, the other day it dawned on me that I am an awkward turtle to the n-th degree.

Now, I know, I know, you’re all saying to yourselves, “But Cristina, you are très cool. You’re column is genius; your witticisms, witty; your flair, flair-like.”

Indeed, this is all true. But while I sound good on paper, in reality, the length of this column is about the length of my response to someone in casual conversation. In other words, I talk too flipping much.

People put a lot of weight on last words.

So I’m going to do it too, running the incredible risk of doing something that’s been done before — something that a columnist must never under any sane circumstances do — because I’m in an altered state of mind. Altered, mind you, because of words. I watched the sunrise through the blinds and I have yet to go to sleep and it is all words’ fault.

Under sane circumstances, I myself am fascinated by the idea — what are the last, and I mean the Last, words I want to spend my ultimate breath on? The ones that will just hang there, in the air, until someone opens a window or maybe writes them down and they live on, for a little longer at least?