What the shade of your toast says about you
I'd like to propose a toast
It is a well known fact that you can judge the calibre of someone's character based solely on the particular shade at which they like to consume toast.
It's an ancient technique that dates back as far as Roman times, where Julius Caesar would invite prospective friends over for breakfast, insisting that they toast their own bread. He would then order the immediate execution of anyone whose toast was insufficiently toasted. He preferred the bread to be too cooked rather than not enough, which is why Caesar salads come with croutons to this very day.
So, with regards to toast, how much of a piece of shit are you? It's a question that's not going to answer itself.
Simply identify your preferred shade of toast from the list below and all will be revealed.
Good luck, toast freak.
My friend, you are not eating toast. You are eating bread that has essentially had a small but disciplined dog breathe heavily onto it a couple of times, providing something resembling heat. You are a jester, a buffoon and a societal deviant. Without any evidence necessary, I am fully confident that you leave a tiny scrap of toilet paper on the roll, leaving the burden of having to change it entirely on the next person. You probably write a little note on the inside as well. "Hah", it says, etched with your own blood, along with a chewing gum wrapper for some reason.
You're afraid of everything, but in an arrogant way. Rather than admitting that you don't want to go on the dodgems because of the very real threat of injury, you'll shit all over the concept of driving around in a pretend car with a view to dislocating your friend's neck. "Stupid game, it's for kids anyway", you'll turn to your friends and say, but they're gone. They're paying the cashier for a car each. Now you'll have to stand and watch them have fun without you, like a saddo. You are a flat earth truther and an antibiotic resistance denier. You are trash. Grow up.
Please stop your nonsense because you are testing my patience. This is a slice of bread that has been out in the sun for a few minutes and then returned inside with something barely resembling a new freckle. It is not toast. You seem to think that getting to work on time is far more important than eating bread, and you are dead wrong. No boss in the world is going to fire an employee for taking an extra four minutes in the morning to sufficiently toast their bread. A hungry worker is a useless worker. Value yourself, it's called self care.
They say that French is the language of love, in which case sarcasm is the language of self-sabotage. Mentally, you see yourself as a Chandler Bing character, but in reality, you're falling quite short of the mark. Chandler was actually funny, meaning that he could get away with some well-timed and well-gauged sarcasm from time to time. In your case, the humour just isn't there. But it's fine, you have other qualities, such as being very quick to spot bargain offers in the supermarket and wisely declining to do the eulogy at a funeral. You don't like toast, you like bread.
Buddy, you're not doing too badly. You've got a decent head on your shoulders a comfortable arse upon which to sit. You understand that toast is a blank canvas upon which to paint your dreams and aspirations. I've got a strong suspicion that you won't just be eating that toast on its own. You cheeky mare, you've got an avocado reaching peak ripeness nearby and some bacon frying under the grill. This isn't just toasted bread, this is a vehicle for external forces beyond your control. Maybe a poached egg will make its way onto the toast as well. The sky is the limit.
You're doing well in life. A hefty trust fund means you don't have to worry about rules, regulations, money or repercussions for your actions. Basically, you're golden, just like your toast. When you eat breakfast, it's like you're doing it for the first time. You'll instruct Alexa to play smooth jazz while you accidentally open the stocks app and struggle to close it. Back to the comfort of Instagram, you'll like every photograph on your timeline before posting a picture of your breakfast with a view to getting solidarity likes in return. You're excruciating and I hate you.
Bit cocky, aren't we? Just a bit too smug about making toast and it shows. You've had your toaster for many years, half a decade at an estimate, which means you've gotten to grips with its temperament. You know precisely how long to leave the bread in for, relying on the safety of a reheat button should your attention become diverted at any point during the resting process. You'll brew a fancy coffee using your fancy machine and then confidently smear real(!) butter across the toast, which is at the perfect temperature. In a word, you're conceited.
People don't like staying at your house because everything feels very forced. You've got a complimentary glass bottle of water resting on the nightstand in the spare room, but guests are afraid to crack into it just in case it's ornamental. You smother people with good will, tending to their every need and visibly trying to be the very best version of yourself at all times. Nobody cares that you got a first class honours degree. Drink milk straight from a cow's teat, for God's sake. Live a little. And stop making people take their shoes off at the front door, it's annoying.
Slipped away from you there didn't it, champ? That new toaster has a mind of its own, doesn't it? You 'put down a slice', as they say, for four minutes, then danced with the devil by sticking it down for a surplus danger minute. As the vague scent of char filled the air, you dashed across the kitchen to rescue the toast. It'll need a few firm scrapes into the sink and all will be well. Don't dare rinse the bread ashes out of the sink though, that's someone else's job. You need to get that toast buttered and consumed before anyone catches evidence of your misdemeanour.
You're a bit accident-prone, rarely emerging from a dinner preparation session without a small scratch or minor burn. Still, it's endearing. Most rom-coms need a klutz for a bit of comic relief, except for the fact that your life is the exact opposite of a rom-com. "Love is for losers", you remind yourself as you buy another meal for two, for one. "Tis a life well lived as a solo traveler", you console yourself after getting home and realising that it has to be cooked in the oven. "Death alone is still death", you remark as you burn the dinner as well. Chin up, death is coming.
Fucked it, haven't you? Both in life and in terms of bread taste. Respectfully, you are a glitch in the Matrix. Things should not have gone this far. It's not your fault, merely a science experiment gone wrong. Evidently, scientists were trying to create an incorrect prototype human upon which to conduct research. You know, the kind of person that puts milk in their cup before the tea, uses conditioner before the shampoo, prefers cats to dogs, is a Tory and actively enjoys burnt toast. Unfortunately, you have progressed further than they ever imagined.
It's no cause for alarm. Simply schedule an appointment with your local GP where they can arrange to have you put down as soon as possible. Don't waste time saying goodbye to loved ones, as their memories will all be wiped. Family photographs will be edited, public records deleted and social media profiles deactivated. Everything will return to normal, allowing the world to exist in perfect harmony without suspicious characters lurking on our streets, digging through restaurant bins for discarded bits of burnt bread. Thank you for your service and goodbye.