A/N: Not serious at all. This is what happens when I don't sleep enough.
I apologize deeply and profoundly for what I have done to your brains. I feel like I've committed some kind of crime against humanity by unleashing this work of fiction upon the world. That makes me kind of giggly. I'm tired.

Summary: The heartrending tale of a boy and his breakfast.


It was a Wednesday morning when it happened. The toaster exploded violently and was no more. The funeral was a small affair; only the butterknives and Calvin himself attended. The bread was off celebrating by way of turning itself into alcohol. In Calvin's opinion, however, it might as well have been the end of the world.

Where would he get his breakfast treats now? The thought caused a tear to leak from his eye. He wiped it away quickly.

He left the butterknives to mourn the toaster's passing, and went to take a walk. The kitchen had survived the blast, coming from the altercation with only a few singed walls and some emotional scars to show for it. Seeing the blackened countertop depressed Calvin endlessly, and thinking about it only made the depression more vast and infinite. Without his toaster, he was nothing.

He wound his way through the mad streets of suburbia, avoiding radioactive hobos and rabid squirrels like a pro. The rigors of everyday life didn't serve to comfort him. When he saw a hobo, he thought of the toast neither of them would have. When he saw a squirrel, he thought... pretty much the same thing, only with squirrels. Calvin had loved his toaster; he had always treated it with the utmost respect. He didn't know why it had decided to take it's own life in such an extravagent fashion.

But then again... he supposed that it had all really started with the muffin.

It had been a day like any other. Except that he had forgotten his ritual morning toast. The alarm hadn't gone off, and he had been late for work, so he hadn't had the time. He thought about curling up in a ball and crying for an hour or two, but that seemed a bit self-indulgent. Also, he was in the middle of the office, and if his boss caught him in such a position again he would likely get fired. Again.

So Calvin went off in search of toast.

There was none to be found. He'd checked everywhere; behind the water-cooler, in Julie's desk (she objected heartily with a mighty smack on the head)... Why, he'd even gone down the street to the nearest hardware store! Not a bit of toast in sight.

Sighing and feeling like a kicked puppy, Calvin slowly made his way back to the office. He had given up; his dreams of buttery toast were not to come true this day, he was sure of it. Then he saw it throught the bakery window; a thing of unimaginable beauty.

It was love at first sight.

Even now, he could remember the warm soft sweetness; the blueberries popping in his mouth. Bliss. Pure, unadulterated bliss. When he had realized what he had done to the toaster, he had tried to stop.

But the muffin was an addiction he just couldn't shake. At night, he dreamed about them, swam in seas of unending muffins. Sometimes he had nightmares where he murdered the toaster. Calvin was afraid of himself.

And then it had happened; the toaster blew up.

Walking back toward his house in a haze, Calvin knew deep in his heart that he was responsible for the untimely death of his precious toaster.

He would never eat toast again.