A friend and I went out to breakfast last weekend. This might sound like fun, (and it was, for the most part) but leisurely breakfasts in restaurants are often the venue of a deep, personal weakness of mine: Pancakes.

When a plate of pancakes are put in front of me, I can’t not finish them. I don’t know why — I’ve abandoned other meals, why should pancakes be any different? Something about them represents a challenge, perhaps. Or, maybe it has something to do with the fact that you can’t take them home in a doggy-bag, because leftover, unfinished pancakes are disgusting.

This shit is going to kill me, eventually. It’s certainly not doing much for my social relationships, because nothing ruins a good time at breakfast quite like witnessing a man’s grueling struggle against a quick bread. I almost always manage to pack away the last few bites — but at what cost? The end result is a grim thing to witness. Also, bloating.

Of all the things to approach with grit and determination, pancakes are probably the stupidest. And yet, no matter how many times I tell myself, “next time I’ll just get some eggs,” I always blow it.

Maybe I need to take baby steps; perhaps I should just switch to waffles, at first.