Not me thinking we were just here for eggs and vibes, but somehow we ended up unraveling our deepest wounds like a telenovela season finale. One second it’s “Omg, this French toast is amazing,” and the next, it’s “And that’s when I realized my fear of abandonment stems from 2007.”

Why do bestie brunches always turn into accidental therapy sessions? The waiter keeps coming back like, “Everything okay here?” and we’re just nodding through tears, holding hands like we’re in a Frida Kahlo masterpiece.

And of course, after three hours of emotional excavation, someone always goes, “So, wanna go thrifting after this?” as if we didn’t just dig through enough baggage for the day.

Disclosure: Yes, I wrote this post with AI. 78% of this rant was generated by me, the human. The remaining 22% was fueled by overpriced French toast and unresolved issues.