Making yourself eat breakfast

It is hard. Too much work. I want the apple injections from Pure Trance to be a thing that is real.

"No, I totally ate today, I ate like. Several apples."

"You injected those apples into your arm, because you have an intractable eating disorder from the future."

"HEY I DIDN'T ASK TO BE BORN. INTO A DYSTOPIAN SUBTERRANEAN CYBERPUNK WORLD WHERE MY HAIR OUTWEIGHS MY BODY."

"We need to figure out some kind of summer camp for him, or something."

Dad: Mr. N has such an effeminate dog...

Mom: Dear! "Effeminate dog?" Jesus.

Me: What?

Mom: Oh, your father's been calling Mr. N's little terrier an "effeminate" dog. He's ridiculous.

Dad: He had it all dressed up.

Me: You put a pink sweater on my dog! Without my permission.

Dad: She's a girl. It's just effeminate.

Me: You know, I'm noticing a similarity between the way you use that word and the way certain high school kids use "gay." Are you a homophobe, Dad?

Dad: No, you just shouldn't make a boy dog dress like that -

Me: I don't know how I feel about having a homophobic dad! I think I'm going to have to send you away to be re-trained.

Mom: Fine with me.

Dad, petulantly: Fine! I'm dying anyway, I'll be dead soon.