As the morning sunshine warms my bare bottom and my feet feel the cool chill of the kitchen tile, I reach into the freezer. A blast of cold air greets me, turning my nipples so hard I could dial an iPhone. As a shiver pleasantly travels south from my torso to my abdomen to the very tip of my sheathed sword, I saunter to the counter where I insert a blueberry-kissed waffle into the tight, dark, chrome-covered hole of my toaster. A gentle cloud of warmth emanates from the glowing steel rods within, bringing with it an intoxicating aroma of fruit, sugar, and hot, fluffy passion. The shiny appliance transforms into a giver of joy as the Eggo waffle pops up from the darkness, steam rising slowly and beckoning me to grab it and caress it and swallow it whole. I temper my passion for a moment, if only to find the fortitude to instead gently place it on a plate, covering it in slick, wet butter and gooey, sticky-sweet maple syrup. As the cushiony indentations of unadulterated bliss finally tou