The Existential Crisis of a Breakfast Table

Barnaby merely craved toast. A simple, unassuming slice, destined for a warm embrace with butter and jam. He reached for the bread bin, which let out a huffy sigh. 'Honestly, Barnaby, another wholewheat? We have artisanal sourdough now, you know. It's got notes of regret and a hint of a forgotten dream. Much more *you*.'

Barnaby, accustomed to the bread's dramatic flair, pulled out a slice. It shivered. 'Oh, cruel fate! Is it to be the toaster's fiery maw again? My pores aren't even open yet! I haven't processed the morning dew!'

He ignored its theatrics, slid it into the toaster. The appliance hummed, a low, judgmental purr. 'Well, look what the cat dragged in. Such a *plain* canvas. No character. Perhaps a little extra char for depth? We could call it 'The Burnt Offering of Innocence'.'

'Just a light golden,' Barnaby requested, massaging his temples.

From the counter, the strawberry jam jar offered its unsolicited opinion. 'Honestly, Barnaby, after all *that* fuss, you're still going with strawberry? Fig preserves would tell a much more compelling story. A narrative of quiet sophistication, rather than... well, *this*.'

Just then, the kitchen faucet began to drip, each drop hitting the sink with the percussive rhythm of a tiny, disgruntled jazz drummer. *Plink-plonk, plink-plonk, is-this-all-there-is?*

Barnaby blinked. He hadn't even had his coffee, which, mercifully, remained silent in its cupboard. For now. He slowly backed away from the counter, decided a bowl of dry cereal was a safer bet, and probably less emotionally taxing.