Mom, I Would Like a Piece of Bread

I am famished. Starving. Excruciatingly hungry. I am but a six-year-old flower, wasting away. Indeed, my sweet little six-year-old stomach is emptier than it has ever been, despite the fact that I had a pizza with a surface area equal to that of my torso for dinner not but three hours ago.

It is bread that I require. A slice of fluffy, chewy, plain, room-temperature bread, baked in a factory and lovingly packaged by underpaid workers. Oh, how I crave the glutenous release of a single slice of bread, which is around 50% air! Au bon pain! Je ne suis pas français mais j’adore les baguettes.

O mother, have you seen the time? It is 10 p.m., far past my bedtime. Dearest mother, I beg of you, please bring me a piece of white bread. I have been eating all day, but now at this moment, close to dawn, I need sustenance more than ever before. Like darkness, I devour. Like darkness, I am void. Like darkness, I lack bread. Be the light, o’ mother, I implore you; bring me a piece of bread. I must feast.