The Great Cereal Avalanche of '23

Bartholomew 'Barty' Butterfield considered himself an intellectual giant, a titan of thought. Physically, however, he was more of a human-shaped catastrophe. His mornings were less about routine and more about navigating an obstacle course of his own making. This particular Tuesday, Barty decided a bowl of cereal was in order. A simple task, one might think.

He fumbled for the cereal box, a jumbo family-sized fortress of cardboard, which promptly slipped from his grasp and exploded upon impact with the linoleum. Oats, sugar-frosted flakes, and what appeared to be tiny marshmallow planets cascaded across the kitchen floor like a sugary apocalypse. 'Whoopsie,' Barty mumbled, already sidestepping a milk puddle that mysteriously appeared after he'd opened the fridge (the carton had a hidden weep-hole, he was sure).

Retrieving the broom, Barty managed to trip over his own feet, sending the broom handle flying into a stack of clean dishes, which, in turn, performed a symphony of ceramic shatters. His cat, Muffin, who usually regarded Barty's antics with a detached, judgmental stare, now looked genuinely alarmed, her tail twitching like a confused metronome.

Defeated but not entirely deterred, Barty decided a coffee might steady his nerves. He reached for the coffee maker, only to knock over the sugar bowl, turning his clean countertop into a crystalline beach. As he sighed, a solitary, resilient marshmallow planet, having survived the cereal avalanche, rolled perfectly into his waiting coffee mug.

'Well,' Barty mused, surveying the sugary chaos, the broken crockery, and the bewildered feline, 'at least breakfast is... crunchy.' He then proceeded to attempt to drink his coffee, forgetting he hadn't actually *made* the coffee yet, resulting in a mouthful of cold, sugary, marshmallow-laced tap water. The morning was officially a masterpiece of clumsy disaster.