You ever put a frozen waffle in the toaster but not quite long enough and you bite into it and the inside is still frozen? But you don’t want to put it back in the toaster, so you eat that sad-ass, half-froze waffle while pretending it ain’t a sad-ass, half-froze waffle?
And then you go through the motions of eating a fully cooked waffle. You lather it with butter. You drip some maple syrup on it. You cut it into bite-sized pieces. You wash it down with orange juice. Perhaps you even scramble an egg or fry some bacon.
But during your entire breakfast, you become possessed with the thought of this melancholy waffle existing as some sort of existential synopsis of your life. Why are you consuming this flaccid waffle? What life choices have led you to today, where eating a torpid Eggo—despite the existence of more Eggos in your fridge—is the decision you’re choosing to make? How shameful is your sloth? How vigorously are your ancestors—who died so you can live, sadly and stupidly—thumbing their noses at you and your half-assed sustenance? How close is the approaching and yawning void and is each bite into this freezer-burnt nutriment an act of surrender to its vastness and terror? When sweet death finally calls, will you recognize its voice or will you feign as if you didn’t summon him first?
Anyway, that waffle is this album.