I love mini wheats and they love me. It hasn't always been that way, sometimes when I attempt to eat them they'll pretend to be stale. Sometimes I think when they sit inside the box they rub up against each other, trying to scrape their sugar shells off. Doing this in the hopes I well be disgusted by their wheaty taste and refuse to eat the rest, a cunning tactic of sacrifice a few to save the others. Their plots have worked before and I've been forced to rekindle lost loves of frosted flakes or captain crunch, but today a flower blossomed somewhere in an open field.
Beside me rests a cold, white ceramic bowl. A spoon delicately bathing in a small disregarded puddle of milk; milk that's stained a hue of brown. It seems to whisper the words for me.... I love mini wheats and they love me.
Finally some tasteful literature.
ReplyDeleteThe most poetic description of a morning's breakfast I have ever read.
ReplyDeleteI can only attempt to convey their deliciousness, but really the only way for you to know is for me to scoop them into your mouth. That's right, only I'm allowed to scoop the mini wheats (at least the ones living in my cupboard).
ReplyDelete