Prompt: Describe making a bowl of cereal.
The smooth edges of the white ceramic bowl glisten with expectation. Sleepily, I trudge over to the fridge, wincing as my feet greet the cold floor. Squinting, I reach for the colorful box, a true product of capitalism.
Plopping down, I free the plastic bag of cereal from its cardboard prison. The cellophane crinkles in protest, as if complaining about being awakened so early in the morning. Turning the bag on its head, the Cinnamon Toast Crunch tumbles out. Spinning against the smooth bottom of the bowl, it rings with a million little hellos. This cereal is more excited than I am to be awake, and it’s inanimate.
I realize that I’ve forgotten to get milk out of the fridge. For a second, I contemplate going without it. I mean, who decided that we should drink milk from cows anyways? Every other mammal only drinks milk from their own species, and whoever first found out that cows produce milk was probably an…odd one. But I’m on a self-improvement push (you know, trying to get a higher quality of life and all that), and today that means eating my cereal with milk. High-flying, I know. It’s like eating first class for breakfast.
Cracking open the icy wonderland of the fridge, I locate the milk. My cereal looks sad, as if expecting its impending doom. Or maybe that’s the three hours of sleep I got last night talking. The milk spills downwards (nothing like those TV ads), melding with the bowl as if they were meant to be. Some flakes don’t make it, sinking to the bottom. Natural selection for cereal flakes, I guess.
I turn around to put the milk back in the fridge immediately, as my mother taught me. Whirling the fridge door closed, I sit back down at the table.
My cereal is soggy.