I Apologize Most Profusely

I’m sorry.

I apologize.

I am wrenched with remorse.

My emotions bubble and boil with the extent of my act of contrition.

My regret knows no bounds, along with my overwhelming urge to never stop apologizing.

I can never forgive myself.

The thought is unthinkable.

I’m sorry I even mentioned it in the first place,

Because that means I thought it,

Which makes the unthinkable thing…

Thinkable.

Seriously, though.

I’m sorry.

I didn’t mean to eat your jam.

It looked nice

And I didn’t think you wanted it.

So I ate it.

With an English muffin.

Which is a tasty combination.

But I am still prostrate with repentance and sorrow.

As should all people be who darest consumeth thine holy pot of delicious jam.

A sin for which I am eternally and perpetually submissive and considered a worthless human being.

What?

No!

I’m not making fun of your idiotic raging at all.

I’d never do that.

Ever.

Never ever.

Well, maybe sometimes.

But you have to admit, I did a pretty good job of it.

A real apology?

I’m not really all that sorry.

The jam was delicious

And ran down my throat like golden honey.

It tasted of strawberries and sunshine,

A beautiful face on a summer’s day,

That time when I spent ten minutes apologizing for something unbelievably stupid

And enjoyed every minute of the increasingly eloquent and expressive expression of regret.

Yup.

It tasted of overwhelming awesome.

So I’m

Not

Really

Sorry.

...

Sorry.