Breakfast. I remember you. We had some great times together. I would saunter from my early morning sleep-induced zombie coma to you at the table. We would sit and stare at one another. You would smell good and I would just grumble and glare. You were hot and I was disheveled. But we got along so well. You awoke me to a bright new day, and I started to open my swollen eyelids and realize I was still alive. Thank you breakfast.
But now we have become less intimate. Sometimes I see you, other times I don't. I don't help you exploit chickens anymore. I help you exploit cows and grains, and occasionally banana trees.
But it's all business now. I don't stare at the wall and back at you with my usual dazed confusion. I'm quick and methodical. Uncaring. I don't spend as much time with you because you bore me. You are a chore. You're a simpleton now. We can't even carry on a decent conversation. I'm sorry breakfast.
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