The moment I woke up, my brain refused to function. It felt like my head was still plugged into the charger but hadn’t reached 5%. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the void like a frozen laptop.
Then suddenly—growllllll. My stomach made a noise so loud it sounded like a rock concert inside me. I swear there was a crocodile in there, holding a microphone, singing: “Feed me! Feed me nowww!”
Okay, so clearly I was hungry. But here’s the problem—I didn’t feel like eating. Just the thought of pancakes made me imagine them dropping into my stomach like bricks. But not eating? That felt like a crime too.
It was like my organs started arguing.
Stomach: “Give me food!”
Brain: “Shut up. You’ve got too many calories stored already. Try fasting, bro.”
And there I was—stuck in the middle like a hostage in a Netflix drama.
I walked to the kitchen. On the counter were some cold leftovers—rice and beans from last night. I stared at them and thought, “Nope. Those aren’t beans. Those are office emails.” Eating them would feel like clocking into work. And honestly? I didn’t have the energy to deal with HR at 8 AM.
So, I gave up and made coffee. As soon as I poured it into the mug and took a sip, my stomach went, “Yesss, this is real food!” I actually thought—if coffee counts as food, then why has humanity been bothering with bacon, eggs, and burgers for centuries?
That’s when a deep philosophical question hit me: Do we live to eat, or eat to live? I tried to think of the answer—but the more I thought, the more my head hurt. Philosophy should come with a warning label.
So here I am—sitting with a cup of coffee, stomach yelling “More!”, brain whispering “Diet…”, and me stuck in the middle thinking—humans are ridiculous creatures. We wake up every morning and immediately start arguing…with ourselves.
And the saddest part? No matter how much I resist, breakfast always wins. 🍳🥞😅
NICE
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