I woke up from a knock at my door. It was my dad who said "There breakfast at the table." I made muffling sounds of protest. My dad look at me and say "Are you're alright?". "Yeah, I'm ok." I repeal back and precide with the daily rituals of a Sunday morining. Eat breakfast, get dress, go to chruch and eat a donut. Only difference form this sunday was that I went to this place called "Tates"; going there didn't made much of a boring day.