By Eric Brinling
You awake with a start. You were dreaming again, the same dream as always: you were meat, and everybody around you was also meat. This time, you made it all the way to college, even if you weren’t doing very well. But now you are awake, and you have to face reality. You aren’t meat at all. You’re bread.
You stretch out your loafy limbs and get bready for another day at the University of Pitaburg. You check your bread phone (which is a phone made of bread), to find that you overslept your alarm. You albready missed your first class (unless you wanted to be at yeast an hour late), and you would have to run to your second one. Serves you right for dreaming about being meat agrain! You don’t have time for breadfast, or for breadshing your teeth (which, it should be noted, are made of bread). You put on a dirty crust and rush out the door, breadpack in hand.
Your class is nearby, in the Cathedral of Loafing, the tallest edoughcational stack of bread in the western breadisphere. You arrive just in time to hear your breadfessor begin a particularly interesting lecture on the Hapsbread dynasty. After many centuries of intermarrying with the various royal families of Europe, you muse, it’s no wonder that they became inbread.
After class, you find yourself hungrain. You suddenly remember that you forgot to eat breadfast, but now it’s too late: it’s already loaf past twelve. You decide to roll right to lunch, so you go to your favorite spot on campus: Panera Bread.
When you arrive, your bread heart (which is a heart made of bread) skips a breadt. It’s her, the wobread you have been admiring from afar for months. You take a deep breadth. You can do this. You’re good looking. You’re funny. You’re bready to ask her out.
“I have a breadfriend,” she says, before you even get the chance to speak.
“Whaaat,” you say, trying to play it off, “you’re banana bread…”
But alas, she was having naan of it. You slink off in shame, and order your bread sandwich (which is a sandwich made of bread) for only a doughler and a few pumpernickels. You think back to your dream. You were meat then, and if you were meat now, this wouldn’t have happened. Meat doesn’t have feelings. Meat is lifeless and cold, until you grill it, at which point it becomes lifeless and hot. But meat cannot be hurt, meat cannot be rejected by more beautiful meat.
In your hubris, you had forgotten: bread is pain.