I fasted during the night. Hence the term, "breakfast."

I fasted last week when I had no money.

But I'm not fasting today.

I'm claiming the health exemption.

Some may say it applies only to threats to life itself, but that seems unlikely.

I feel fragile. What if I am? Imagine the regret if I guess incorrectly and end up shards of glass in a dented crate.

I want to be like Kirk Douglas and suffer quietly with my people in a line stretching back thousands of years, unbroken 'til the tragic buckling of the metallurgically suspect link that is me. I've always scoffed at Jews who opted out of the simple act of refusing to dine for a day. "Weaklings," I judged them. Certainly, I am.

But then, I think, at times like this, as when eating bread during Passover, that if one lives life as a candy bar with a nougetless center, where days of deprivation are the norm rather than the exception, what better way to set a day apart than by living it well?

Okay, you say, but doesn't that make me, not Christ but anti-Christ, not angel but devil?

"Spare me," I say, laughing heartily as I stroke my horns.