it comes with eggs and a veg, bread, some kind of meat, jams or jellies, coffee or tea, and a cigarette.
(if you got'em smoke'm)
there's an order to it: the order in which it's sold, cooked, spread, served, smoked, and the lingering scent is enough to entice Lunch to dinner.
i'm tired. it takes up my morning, burns out my bulb before the sun rises, and i don't have the drive to love myself. i don't have the gumption to water the money tree in my flaking window sill.
and that's ok.
no one needs breakfast, or a money tree, when there is no fast to break from. i eat day in and day out, we all do, food is so easy now. what we need is a breakfeed from the Fat Tuesday that is every day of the week.
you wouldn't give up on your fill though when the hole in your gut is so deep that it would take a tightrope for your hands to reach your feet, bound tight and trussed like a turkey for turkey day, and a week of cannibalistic frivolity at the cost of your dignity.