“I Love Oatmeal!” I say, Holding a Knife to My Own Throat, Threateningly

I sit up in my bed and place my hand on my growling stomach. It’s undeniable. I’m hungry.

It’s time for breakfast again and I don’t have any bread or eggs or fruit or yogurt or cereal, but that’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine because luckily for me I. Love. Oatmeal. I love it.  

I slide into my slippers and let them take me to the kitchen.

I stand in the middle of the floor and stare at a wall that I never look at. “Maybe I don’t need to have breakfast today”, I think. “It’s already 9:00 am. Lunch is just around the corner.”

I do a 180 degree spin and lock eyes with the bag of instant oatmeal in the open pantry. A lot of time passes. I think about how oatmeal probably has a longer shelf life than me and everyone I love.

“Yum. Let’s have some oatmeal,” I say out loud breaking the tension. “This will be a nice breakfast.”

One second I am reaching for a bowl, and the next second I am sprinting for the doorway. I stop myself dead in my tracks before I reach the hallway.

I slam myself against the wall. “You like oatmeal,” I say forcefully. “The texture is...interesting” I respond,  “I always wanted to eat a melted carpet! And the flavour? Amazing”. My throat starts to ache, I think I might cry.

I grab a handful of dry oats. How much worse can they be dry? I mean, uh, how much better can they be once they are cooked? They are great just like this.

I let a tear slip out but it doesn’t phase me, my grip is tight on my wrist, “I DON’T EVEN NEED BROWN SUGAR”.

I sit down, and try and calm down. I remember Cinnamon Toast Crunch, god I wi-- “Oh you like sugary cereals?!” I yell, shining a lamp into my eyes. It's so bright. “No! No! I swear I prefer oatmeal! I care about my heart health more than anything!”

Somehow I’ve fashioned a dish towel into handcuffs and am locked to the table.

I wish I didn’t watch so many crime shows because this is too intense for 9:00am.

I do what I think waterboarding is but with dry oatmeal. But only for a second because it is terrible and painful, and might be the only thing worse than eating the oatmeal that I love to eat.

“Ahhhh,” I scream, screaming directly at a spoon, “ahhh,” I scream some more, “ahhh.”

My roomate walks into the kitchen and puts a piece of her bread in the toaster.

“Can I-”

She nods, saving me my pride. 

See you tomorrow oatmeal. I’m truly truly looking forward to it. Maybe I’ll make it on the stove and really cook it well. Yum.