As much as your mums is a solid stone of useful wisdom, you figure maybe you should double check the recipe she handed you, just in case she accidentally forgot some ingredients. You only know one person who underwent a magical, seemingly over-night follicle transformation majestic enough to have possibly utilized your mother's secret formula. Only one person with enough manly facial hair to truly know whether you should swallow or not. To the telephone you dial....
“Hey sis, what did mom give you to help you grow that awesome beard?”
You hear your adorable little niece tearing around in the background, the faint distant strains of Dorah waft in on the sweet spring breeze.
“Fuck you!” she responds and slams down the receiver. You are extraordinarily confused, as you don't know what a receiver is, but that wonderfully angry slamming sound must be a sick app you could get for your I-Bloobly.
You telephony againy. “Hello sister... just listen, before you hang up: bleach, drano, advil, and Tylenol 3's, should I take them?”
“Yes, absolutely,” she retorts, followed by that blissful banging sound.
So that pretty much settles it. Your death was a wonderful family affair. I think your long lost pappy might even show up to join in the celebration of your death, I mean what you considered life.