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My name is Christopher Edelson Principe, and I love cereal.

One might even say I'm "All Cereal, All The Time," with an exclamation point at the end. That's how much I love it.

My personal, holy breakfast cereal trinity is as follows:

Crispix, Kix, & Cheerios

Please understand: there's no regimented schedule, and I don't enter the grocery store with any particular cereal-purchase in mind. Instead, I prefer to surrender to whatever transitory desires happen to be flowing through my body as I round the corner of Aisle Two. Nonetheless, I can't deny reaching for one of those three sacred brands, overwhelmed with breakfast-balancing gratitude, probably about 96% of the time.

But of course, numbers follow certain rules, and 96% does not equal 100%.

**Flashback to June 2005**

It had been a good week. I'd just finished an excellent kid-tested, mother-approved box of Kix, but was jonesin' for something a little different. I needed just as much crunch, but slightly less sweetness. And as I approached Aisle Two, I felt my body scream it out: "Crispix! Crispix! Crispix!"

It was decided. I scanned the shelves: Kix? Cheerios? Yes...but no Crispix anywhere.

I kept looking: Corn Flakes, Lucky Charms, Chocolate Lucky Charms (barf), Corn Pops, Honeycomb…still no Crispix, but wait—

I felt something. A strange and subtle and familiar something, coming from somewhere deep inside—from that vital triple point, where Heart, Mind and Stomach intersect.

I glanced back at the other cereal boxes and began to look through them, past them, searching through the collection of softly unnoticed desires circling my psyche. And in a sudden moment of brutal self-honesty, I realized it:

I had been quietly craving Honeycomb for the past 20 years. And until that single moment in Aisle Two, I didn't even know it.

In a flash, I saw the hundreds of Honeycomb commercials I'd absorbed as a child. I recalled the vague image of an old Honeycomb box with a treehouse full of smiling kids on it, and how I'd never really understood the purpose of those knobby honey stick things that were always dripping and oozing with honey, and how I still wanted them anyway. A slight mini crisis ensued. How could I not realize this sooner? Was I really so out of touch with my own desires? What other "Honeycombs" have been unknowingly haunting my pathetic life of lies?

Eventually, all of these confused, fragmented questions and memories coalesced into one coherent idea: Me Want Honeycomb.

And I did. Oh God, did I ever.

Which apparently is the cereal's main draw. To quote the website, this sweetened corn and oat cereal has a unique honeycomb shape and a honey-sweet taste that kids have been craving for more than 30 years.

Or, in my case, twenty.

Later that night, at nearly 25 years of age, Chris Principe sat alone at a dimly lit table in his apartment, ready to confront the demons head-on, and experience his first-ever bowl of Honeycomb.

And did he enjoy it?

It isn't until now—nearly one month later—that he truly understands the situation: those poor Honeycombs never really stood a chance. How could any single bowl live up to such unreasonable expectations, inflated over the course of two decades? Could he not taste the disappointment before the spoon even touched his lips?

In short, they were fine. They got soggy and bland a little too quickly, but it's not that big of a deal ‘cause there really wasn't all that much flavor to begin with. And they hurt a little when you eat 'em. Not as bad as those mouth-cutting, fruit-shaped Trix-shards they were selling for a while, but still painful. Or maybe that was just the emotional betrayal I was tasting. Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

Either way, the week passed and soon enough I found myself back in Aisle Two, reaching again for the holy three, stomach growling and faith renewed. The delusions had subsided, and like a lone, brave Crispick in a pool of 2% milk, I'd endured the flood and emerged victorious, my integrity and crispiness intact.