At 8am, I remember collapsing onto the floor after rolling over too far in bed. The profound smack of my face against tile said “Good morning, sunshine!” when the sun didn’t and neither did my family.

I trudge groggily to my bathroom and aimlessly squirt paste on my brush, missing by a clear mile. So I guess the sink drain is minty fresh, too.
The kitchen is dark, the curtains and shades are a forest green color and it’s raining; there isn’t any natural light penetrating my eyes.

I’m temporarily blinded when I open the refrigerator, illuminated and basking in the light of food gods. I scratch my hair, contemplating what I should make.

I carry eggs, waffles, sausage links, bacon, whipped cream, butter, syrup, and fruits on my hip, my breasts, and my head. Tiptoeing to the counter, I, with sleep in my bones, lay out my provisions.

In the dark, one-quarter awake, I smell the fat of sliced pork and recoil from the grease that angrily bites against my face. I mercilessly beat eggs apart-three large ones-and dump an overtly “healthy” helping of cheese in it. I spread butter on the patterned surface of the waffles and pour warm maple goo in and out of the nooks; the syrup forms a pond on the plate. I add whipped cream, and I’m sure I depleted the can’s contents before I was satisfied with the obnoxious cloud.

I retrieve my nearly charred meat and accidental omelet du fromage and sit them in the sticky, brown lake.

I entice my alertness with a bite of aggressive cholesterol and blood pressure inducing breakfast, savoring every morsel, every forkful.
Still, even when I clatter the dishes in the sink and run a sweltering soapy waterfall, no one wakes up. And that’s fine as I hold my food baby, slightly ashamed of my eating habit, and shuffle back to bed.

Thoroughly satiated, morally dissatisfied.