It’s not quite breakfast, no. That word itself, despite pleasant associations with bacon, is a dead weight on my shoulders telling me that it’s the start of the day, and that I have no excuse not to get my sh*t together.
It’s not lunch either. That means half the day has passed, and is therefore a signal of failure if I haven’t managed to get anything done yet (which, personally, is the case 75% of the time).
But breakfast and lunch got together and employed dinner as a surrogate mother, blessing the world with the perfection that is brunch—also known as the happy hour for adults, when done right.