When I awake at an hour deemed inappropriate by my patriarchic mother, she will usually say, “It’s noon, the kitchen is closed for breakfast” – implying that I must go hungry until lunchtime simply because I did not rise at 6 a.m. to enjoy a pot of hazelnut coffee with my inexplicably well-rested parents while watching the sun shine its inaugural rays over our many-an-acre suburban ranch situated in the geographically ambiguous New York/New Jersey overlap.

What the hell? I am living in a McDonald’s, where one is expected to enjoy a burger and fries at 10:31 a.m.?! Fuck this shit. Pass to me my bowl of cereal, bitch!

Addendum: My mother has graciously afforded me two options: "You can have either a bowl of cereal or yogurt. And you're to eat them standing up." Very well -- I suppose we must keep the floor clean to ACD-proportions for this evening's dinner guests. But when I beat your ass, would you prefer it if I stood, as well?