Envision this, or remember it from four days ago: You wake up next to a person, a person you'd maybe met before last night or maybe not. In any case, this person is in your house/bed and you'd prefer they not be. Appropriate topics of conversation are few. (Hi, I'm Jennifer," is one. "You're wearing my underwear backwards," is another.) But by far the gentlest euphemism for "No I don't want to do that again, thank you" is the offer of brunch.

If you like your Guest, or suspect you might, this gives you chance to find out. It also gives your Guest a convenient escape: "All the chipotle hollandaise in the world can't fill this chasm of uncertainty. The snake eats home fries but devours itself in the process," he or she might say. "Well it was sure nice meeting you, then," you reply, opening the door wider and pointing toward the street.

The only appropriate response to Christopher Robbins's Brunch Dirge would be to stand in a kiddie pool and pour milk into my hair, but someone already did that and I ain't no cheat.

Everyone hates Brunch, just like everyone hated Call Me Maybe after its 3,000th rotation around the airwaves. This was not the fault of Carly Rae Jepsen—her only crime was performing a tune so catchy that it became a bloated Pop Hydra, a multi-headed beast crooning "I missed you so bad" out of each of its heads until your ears bubbled with blood because you hate that song. But you do not hate the song. You hate what the song has become. You hate the omnipresence of the song. (You might actually hate the song but surely you understand what I'm getting at.)

Brunch does not have to be Brunch—it can be brunch. Capital B Brunch is served with watery mimosas in the presence of men in thumb rings and pageboy hats. Brunch is last night's mascara mashed into pallid cheeks, and Brunch is wrist-grabbing followed by "He did what" followed by "I'd love a bite, it looks delish."

You know what else is brunch? Dim sum in Borough Park. Blinis in Brighton Beach. Thai food in Jackson Heights. Whereas Brunch is only available on square plates at cafes built from reclaimed driftwood, brunch is widely available at diners in neighborhoods untouched by the brushed metal claw of gentrification. Breakfast is too early, dinner is too formal; both require a shower before a fork may touch your lips. Lowercase brunch is honest—It says "It's Sunday, I'm hungover, and the second I pay this waiter I am going back to bed to try it again tomorrow."

Face it: If you hadn't gotten up for brunch today, you would never have gotten up at all. At best, you would have crept down the hall to your kitchen, investigating the refrigerator for leftovers devoid of mold fur. At worst, you would have lowered your face to the floor, keen on sniffing out a fallen pita chip or escaped Lifesaver. You'll make some eggs later, you say to the carpet as you tentatively pick up a nickel, press it to your lips, and put it down. But you won't make eggs. You know you won't.

Take a moment to look at yourself as you dust the hair (yours?) off that Lifesaver (presumed). This isn't what your parents wanted for you. This isn't what you wanted for yourself. Wouldn't it have been easier just to go to brunch?