Breakfast Delusions

While it was generally shiny and the overhead fluorescent light glinted strikingly and without feeling off it unyielding shell, I saw a spot (two spots, really) where grease had been left from some dripping butter before the bread slid into the rack that, although well taken care of, still had a tendency to squeak when the button was pressed and the metal bars surged with electricity, toasting the buttered bread into a comfortably warm, light brown color, much like the color of my best friend’s hair while she walked along the beach, prancing and dancing and flirting with the waves as a sea gull soars overhead with no cares other than finding one tasty fish in and ocean full of life and death and the search for food, much as I sat staring at the toaster, waiting for the bread to pop back up. When it finally emerged, I felt all my realizations and hopes fulfilled in a glorious fanfare of heat and taste, as the delightful bread rose from the smudged toaster like Aphrodite from the sea. I extended my arm, clasped my hand upon it gently, and, in a shower of crumbs, slowly drew it from the hot, dark hole in which it had been resting. I died. The black spot that terribly besmirched it stuck to my heart like a lion-beast gorging itself upon my entrails as I watch in horror, and I screamed agony at the burn that ruined my morning love, while my toast’s fall from grace was to me more terrible than any sin Adam or Even could have committed. The heaves had arrayed their powers against my glorious bread, and although the titanic fight that had occurred must have been of epic proportions, my toast could not have overcome the onslaught, and thus suffered a fiendish blemish upon it’s soul.