He says cereal is like a final match, every spoonful a point. He makes sure the left bowl is empty first, never ties his left shoe before the right, because destiny’s in the details. If a rival can out-pour him, then that’s the only thing that matters. He’s not just eating, he’s measuring focus, he’s measuring his own destiny.

He laughs, saying the cereal bowl is a field, and every spoonful a goal. He says he never spills, or he’ll lose a point in the final. He keeps a spreadsheet of cereal stats, right to left, left shoe before right, because every tiny ritual can be the difference between a win and a loss. He’s not dropping the ball, he’s turning breakfast into a championship, and he won’t let a spill upset the score.

He says the kitchen is the arena, the cereal bowl the scoreboard, and every crunch a touchdown. He keeps a spreadsheet of every spoonful, watches the milk’s splash like a scoreboard glitch, and when it gets too wild he pulls the syrup in like a timeout, a sweet pivot that keeps the game on track. He’s not just eating; he’s measuring destiny, one spoonful at a time.