I love cereal.
I love all kinds: the healthy stuff, the mildly-healthy stuff, the not-so-healthy stuff, and the thinly-disguised balls of sugar stuff.
I even mix my cereals. Sometimes a layer of Golden Grahams beneath my Cheerios gives them just the right spin. It’s an artform and a sport, and I have been a lifelong practitioner.
I could eat cereal for breakfast, second-breakfast, lunch, dinner, late-night snack, or middle-of-the-night munchies.
But the question is this: How many nights in a row can one eat cereal for dinner before it goes from “tasty and convenient” to “pathetic”?
Tonight, I fear I may have crossed the line. Even with the sliced banana. I put my bowl down, I looked back, and I saw the line.
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