Vanilla cereal, in the form of:
Corn flakes
You are the refuge of hobbledehoyhood, and you are enough to be had on your own but only ever in a rush, with haphazard milk-splashing mouthfuls from the left hand as the right claws open a novella about wine-loving promiscuous pranksters in brown robes calling each other brother. (With any luck, there’ll be a Rowlandsonesque illustration in the in between pages.) Sometimes you are even carried away from the table, or the counter, and taken on an adventure, upstairs perhaps, where you might even meet a bed. Such is the errant life of a corn flake.
::)::
You’ve always been afraid of death. Please don’t kill me, you whisper prayerfully to the night, but you know it ignores you. Sometimes a strange longing takes you, and for a moment you believe you’re about to meet your end. “Aquí está,” you say out loud. “Los asesinos en cereales me llevan.”
One day, as the rising sun peeks through your huddled cardboard covers, you have an epiphany, or at least a thought. “Soy le defensore de les despoetices,” you proclaim convincingly. “Y nadie puede silenciarme. ¡Adelante, mi arma es mi voz!” You emerge from your dusty fortress into the dawnlit lands and set out ayonder with tongue in hand. You may be a little bland, but you certainly have an appetite.
You win when all threats to cereal have been eaten.