Really?

Breakfast is, objectively, the best meal of the day. It’s the first meal, dictating the tone and expectation for all proceeding meals and events. In my world, all great experiences and life choices begin and end with a moist muffin or veggie pesto scramble. But even my favorite meal of the day at my favorite breakfast spot can’t make me forget it’s my birthday.

As is with usual Portland weekday brunch, the restaurant is packed full of service industry hipsters, chowing down on Bloody Mary’s and ironic conversations about mid-90s PBS shows. With your coffee, your hot sauces, your jam, and if you’re feeling zesty, your fresh-squeezed mimosa, it’s easy to forget that you have virtually nothing in common with the guy you’re boning.

“Do black people know they’re black?” says stupid Todd.

“Excuse me?” I ask, halting mid-chew.

“Well, like, do they look in the mirror every morning and go, ‘Hey, I’m black’?”

I look at him for a moment and laugh. “It’s a good thing you have a great penis.”

“Whoa. What?”

“Nothing, nevermind. Just don’t say shit like that.”

“Okay, jeez.”

We eat in silence and I’m increasingly bummed that he’s my breakfast companion. Is this the only guy that will sleep with me? Suddenly I feel my usual sense of cloudiness and my stomach churns.

          “Hey- you okay?” Todd asks.

          “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.