LXIV. Breakfast Is The Most Important Meal Of The Day

The Little Martian screeches like a baby banshee, his voice reverberates through the valley and all the tittering bulbuls in the bushes, take flight, startled!

“What the duck LM?” I ask, jolted out of my pleasant midmorning coffee haze

“It's all so messy!” He starts. “Everything is falling apart!”

I look at his perfectly ironed shirt, the creaseless bedsheet that stretches starched upon his immaculate four-poster bed. The walls are a creamy white, and kaleidoscopic sunlight bounces off it dramatically.

“You're literally in paradise,” I tell him.

“But everything is falling apart!” He squeals, picking at the seams of his perfectly tailored suit. A stray thread pops, wary. He picks at it, till his little jacket unravels completely.

“Aaaaaaaaah!!!!” He howls, his ivy jowls shaking, watery eyes melting into flaming yellow tears.

Thwack!

A feather slaps him across his face and he looks up startled at the firm gentleness of its airy violence.The Little martian floats to the floor in a melodramatic heap and looks up at the ceiling beseechingly.

"Why God? Why me?"

I toss him a PB and j and look away as he inhales it in a greedy mouthful.

“Better?”

He grins, sheepish.