It is 5:40 on a Sunday morning. You are lying awake and wondering whether existence precedes essence, or the other way around. You discuss this. Neither of you can remember, so you consult Wikipedia via its iPhone app.
I am also awake. I have been awake since 4:30. I do not need to consult an oracle on existential issues because my stomach has already made them clear: I am hungry, therefore I must remind you that I exist.
I rise over the side of the bed like the great pumpkin in the most sincere pumpkin patch around and cry. You deny my existence by telling me to go lie down.
Duncan wakes up. He also proclaims his existence/hunger by body-checking the bed. I cry again. Now there is a flurry of activity on the floor disturbing your quiet attempt to remember what you learned in college about Jean Paul Sartre.
Down below your comfortable bed, the slaves are rebelling against the elitist overlords.
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