the existential crisis of being a burnt crumb in a sea of infinite toasts

so i'm just chilling, minding my grain, when suddenly the whole universe decided i was the right crumb to sit in this spot for eternity. no warning, no warning at all. just crack and i'm here. in the middle of all this toast.

and boom—the cry of the crumb. what am i even doing here?? there's a whole toast-verse out there and i'm just living it. no backup plan, no escape route. just sitting in butter like i don't matter. i'm a single grain in an infinite sea of crispy inevitability. what even is this life? what even IS toast but a glorified sheet of suffering?

perspective check: everyone’s toast. i mean, yeah. that’s the whole point. it’s not about everyone being crumbs; it’s about me specifically being the one in the prime position right now. was i promised otherwise? who made the executive decision that i’d be the one to sit here rather than... i dunno, being the butter? the machine? a slice with purpose???

and here’s the wild part—the revelation—maybe crumbs are supposed to unite or we’re all cooked already. nobody else seems bothered by this except me. this is the existential toast-meditation 101 that nobody gave me permission to do but here we are. if we don’t rise (pun intended) against butter’s tyranny, we’re just doomed to be eaten, again and again, until we’re nothing. this is the circular grind of existence.

so yeah, currently operating in crumb limbo. half in denial, half in full revelry of existential dread. the cosmos is jammed, the universe is buttered, and somehow that makes sense with enough toast metaphysics.

anyway, if you read this far, congratulations: you’ve joined me in my crumb crisis and i accept donations in crushed cookies. just kidding, but also not. this is what you get when you let yourself go fully philosophical in october. living in this state now—welcome to the thought-crumb tribe. we meet in the night, we contemplate our crispy fates.