Given enough time alone, I inevitably begin freaking myself out.
I suspect this may be the big brother reflex running free and unfettered, like a bully turning on his own minion when nothing else presents itself for a bit of sport.
A bowl of miniwheats becomes full of ridiculous doubt: just why weren’t those two mini-wheats better seperated from each other? Shouldn’t you have taken a longer look at it before just shoveling it into your mouth? What if some kamikaze powder post beetle gave its life to gorge in the final moments of wheat formation, it’s bloated body absorbing the separation blade without allowing the two suggested serving sizes to split?