My work week breakfast habits are woefully repetitive. Greek yogurt, berries, honey, granola. Every. Single. Day.
But that's how I like it.
However, this morning was a bit different.
As I opened a new quart of yogurt, both my eyes and stomach churned with disappointment. What was inside the container resembled something akin to melted ice cream versus that thick, sour cream-like consistency I know and love. Vowing to give it a chance, I constructed my breakfast.
It was at that same time that I saw a day old, half eaten maple long john out the corner of my right eye. He (yes, he) sat alone in the pastry box which once contained twelve of his homies. Had it not been for my hovering boss, I would have taken that stale donut on the ride of his life. But I'm a professional, so instead I simply nodded at my future lover, promising to return, and walked away.
Now I don't know if it was the texture of the yogurt or the promise of maple glaze in my mouth, but the breakfast I had assembled was even more vomitous than originally anticipated. But that's ok, because donut.
I heard footsteps in the kitchen and knew it just had to be my boss heading to his office. My time was about to come, you guys. Finally, after waiting literally four minutes, I could casually, yet swiftly, make my way back to my fried friend. Gospel choirs would clap and shout, the sky would fill with heart-shaped fireworks, we would both receive the final rose...
The face I saw approaching was not that of my boss, it was, for the sake of this story, a smug sun of a gun called Kent*. And in his grubby hand was something I loved. It was my donut. Kent's pace slowed (probably) as he passed my desk and took a clumsy bite out of my future.
In a matter of seconds, my day old dream had disappeared.