Already Over: Sunday Brunch

I've now giving up on weekend brunch.

Forgive me, but I've never really understood the purpose of this New York city staple.

You wake up, still a bit groggy from the previous night's excursions, and struggle to make it to that weekend's brunch destination. This even though it's the early afternoon. You arrive and hope that everyone else will make it, so that your reservation isn't ganked -- my apologies, 'gank' is my new favorite word -- by another. You make small talk and your mildew-embedded mind tries to catch up with the conversation. Everyone looks like they're struggling to get through this endeavor.

The check comes and you gawk at how much you've paid for so little; you're still malnourished. And, after awkward goodbyes, you go home to be non-productive. Really, more than anything, you crave a nap.

I hope that whomever came up with the idea of brunch was dragged into the public square, and drawn and quartered in full view of all the other townsfolk. Seriously, I hate the idea that much. From now on, I'm going to leisurely grab a coffee and a newspaper-- at my own pace.