It’s Saturday morning. Which, for me, is the spiritual equivalent of being dropped into the Roman Colosseum wearing pajamas, armed only with a half-eaten Pop-Tart and a sticky remote control. The gladiatorial battles of willpower that ensue? Wrestling my alarm clock into submission, convincing myself that homework isn’t some fluorescent-lit prison designed solely to crush my soul, and navigating the treacherous minefield of parental ambivalence. I roll over, blink at the ceiling like it owes me an apology, and immediately feel the crushing weight of potential disappointment. You know, the standard Saturday mood.
Suddenly, the metaphysical equivalent of a battering ram—also known as my parents—kicks down the metaphorical door to my lair. They stride in, faces radiating anticipation usually
