I hate you brunch.  I hate your frittatas and three egg omelets.  I hate your long lines on the Upper West Side.  I hate you most in the winter, when I stand outside in the cold while turtle-necked-sweater-wearers sip lattes from over-sized mugs.  I hate your policy that my whole party must arrive before I can sit.  I hate you in the summer when my iced coffee is just hot coffee poured over ice.  I hate your stupid menus and hollandaise sauces.  I hate when you add bananas to pancakes.  I hate your one shitty sandwich that taunts me with what could have been if you served lunch.  I hate that you charge me 29 dollars for two eggs, bacon, and toast.  I hate that you think adding the words “Applewood” and “smoked” to bacon make it better.  I hate your slow service.  I hate that this exists.  I hate that despite all these feelings, I’m stuck with you.  Because everyone else thinks you’re f*ck!ng fantastic.