Ritual Meal

I wake up every morning and I make breakfast. I start off with two pieces of [REDACTED] Italian bread, apply a thin spreading of my peanut butter, and then squeeze out some [REDACTED] grape jelly. I turn on the [REDACTED] espresso machine intermittently throughout this process. At the end I have a sandwich that is simpler than most but a step up from an uncrustable. I have espresso good enough for my body and desired enough for my mind to not be combined with alcohol.

Every day I perform a ritual in which I deny the espresso martini and uncrustable painting, an encapsulation of my vices. I wake up and say I will not be like my father. I will not be like my mother. I will be a healthy normal adult and this ritual is entrenched in the recommendations and thoughts of those around me. I will make this sandwich tomorrow and I will look at the itialian bread and think of [REDACTED]. I will grab the ezsqueeze bottle and remember when [REDACTED] pointed it out. I will turn on the expresso machine and remember when [REDACTED] made me coffee. I could do this forever. This meal is more than sustenance to me.