Breakfast in Bed

Breakfast in bed.

It frightens me. Is that what you really want in your bed? I would generally prefer not to have bacon, sausage, pancakes or eggs anywhere near my bed. I overheat with just me in my bed, so thinking about hot food under the sheets with me just seems like a bad idea.

Not only that, but it's a messy idea. Here someone is, thinking they're being considerate, or even helpful, and you wake up with a burning gooey sensation on your calf, and your hair is full of oatmeal.

Furthermore, it encourages laziness. If I can't get up enough energy to pour a bowl of cereal and peal a banana, I'm on the verge of being declared completely incompetent.

So there you have it. If I want you breakfast, I'll get you. Don't even think about coming to me.

I'm sorry breakfast

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.