I love my toaster. I so look forward to getting up and having breakfast with you. And it isn’t the orange marmalade that is making my life so good—I’m using the same brand. No it’s the toaster. But lately dark clouds are forming and I’m growing weary. My toast is as cold as a marble seraph or as burnt as the lava scorched alders that once greened Mount Vesuvius. I’m tired of having to make excuses for you. Good God, you never used to be like that. It isn’t that I hate you. It’s that I don’t love you anymore.