If one more anthropomorphic cereal box criticizes my morning routine, I might just join the cornflakes in the bowl—soak for ten minutes and consider the meaning of life, right alongside my existential oat crunch.
In the kaleidoscope of bed sheets known as my subconscious, whispering sapphires grant wishes. Unfortunately, they only wish to talk about mineral conservation and the socio-political implications of singing clams, which honestly makes them rather poor genie substitutes.
Did the microwave beep once or twice? A philosophical quandary that even Schrodinger's toast couldn't solve—perhaps it's best not to ponder at all, and just trust that whichever timer counts, both the burrito and I are perfectly cooked.