I won't eat any cereal that doesn't turn the milk purple.

Host:
The kitchen was a quiet mess of early morning — sunlight leaking through blinds, illuminating the soft chaos of life: half-read newspapers, a coffee mug gone cold, and a small galaxy of cereal crumbs scattered across the table. The radio hummed faintly, a DJ speaking to a world still half asleep.

Jack sat in his undershirt, leaning over a bowl of cereal that looked alarmingly artificial — neon-colored shapes floating like tiny planets in a lavender sky of milk. His spoon hovered midair, as though he were trying to decide if this was breakfast or a moral crisis.

Across from him, Jeeny entered, hair tied loosely, holding her own cup of coffee like a compass that hadn’t found north yet. She paused at the doorway, squinting at the spectacle before her.

Jeeny: smiling “Bill Watterson once said, ‘I won’t eat any cereal that doesn’t turn the milk purple.’”

Jack: grinning faintly, still staring into the bowl “Of course he did. The man who made Calvin and Hobbes would say that. Pure chaos disguised as philosophy.”

Jeeny: leaning on the counter “Or maybe it’s the other way around — philosophy disguised as chaos.”

Jack: smiling “You think he meant it?”

Jeeny: softly “Every absurd truth hides a serious one. He’s saying: if your breakfast — or your life — isn’t at least a little ridiculous, you’re doing it wrong.”

Jack: nodding slowly “So purple milk is rebellion.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. It’s the refusal to grow up too neatly.”

Host: The spoon clinked against the bowl as Jack finally took a bite, crunching thoughtfully. Outside, the morning traffic murmured — another day assembling itself with deadlines and rules. Inside, the kitchen held a small pocket of resistance.

Jack: after a pause “You know, we spend so much time trying to make life practical — balanced breakfast, stable income, sensible choices.”

Jeeny: smiling “All beige. No purple.”

Jack: chuckling “Exactly. We forget to make room for nonsense — the harmless kind that reminds us we’re still alive.”

Jeeny: softly “Watterson spent his whole career fighting that — the grown-up machinery of profit and permission. He drew a boy and his tiger to say, don’t lose the part of yourself that still believes in purple milk.”

Jack: quietly “And we call that part childish.”

Jeeny: nodding “When really, it’s sacred.”

Host: The light through the blinds shifted slightly, slicing the kitchen into stripes of gold and shadow. Dust floated like tiny comets through the air. The smell of toast burned faintly — another small rebellion against control.

Jack: grinning faintly “You know, when I was a kid, I used to drink the leftover milk straight from the bowl. Blue, pink, sometimes green — it was like drinking a piece of imagination.”

Jeeny: smiling warmly “And now?”

Jack: shrugging “Now I buy cereal with words like fiber and omega. The milk stays white. The imagination stays quiet.”

Jeeny: gently “That’s what Watterson’s warning us about. The quieting. The acceptance that magic belongs only to childhood.”

Jack: after a pause “And once you accept that, you stop living in color.”

Jeeny: softly “You start surviving in grayscale.”

Host: The radio shifted to a commercial for insurance — the flat tone of adulthood, efficient and uninspired. Jack reached over and turned it off. Silence filled the kitchen, vast and forgiving.

Jeeny: after a long pause “You know, Watterson left the world at his peak — walked away from fame, from money, from merchandise. People thought he was crazy.”

Jack: quietly “But maybe he just didn’t want his art to become cereal boxes.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Exactly. He didn’t want the tiger to become a product. He wanted imagination to stay wild, unbranded, purple.”

Jack: nodding slowly “That takes courage — to protect wonder from profit.”

Jeeny: softly “Because once you sell it, you start doubting its worth.”

Jack: quietly “So purple milk is also a protest.”

Jeeny: smiling “Yes — against dullness disguised as maturity.”

Host: The clock ticked softly on the wall, counting the moments of a morning trying not to become routine. Outside, a bird perched on the window ledge, staring in as if amused by this quiet argument between order and joy.

Jack: after a silence “You ever think about how we measure success? Like, somewhere along the line, we decided joy stopped being enough.”

Jeeny: softly “We confuse seriousness with significance.”

Jack: nodding “And call the rest childish.”

Jeeny: quietly “But the child knows what the adult forgets — that meaning is something you make, not something you’re handed.”

Jack: smiling faintly “And that sometimes, the only proof you’re still human is the color in your milk.”

Jeeny: laughing softly “Now you’re getting it.”

Host: The sunlight brightened, spilling across the table, glinting off the spoon. The cereal, absurdly bright, looked almost beautiful now — a portrait of joy surviving responsibility.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know, I think Watterson was saying: don’t take yourself so seriously that you forget how to play. You can be responsible and still ridiculous.”

Jack: smiling faintly “Yeah. Maybe wisdom isn’t growing up — it’s learning how to keep growing without losing the parts that still laugh.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s what art is, isn’t it? The permission to stay curious. To stay colorful.”

Jack: quietly “Even when the world turns beige.”

Jeeny: smiling “Especially then.”

Host: The sound of laughter — faint and real — drifted in from outside, kids on their way to school, their voices echoing down the street. Jack looked toward the window and smiled — maybe not at them, but at the reminder of something unbroken.

Jack: quietly “Maybe I’ll buy a new box tomorrow. The kind that stains everything it touches.”

Jeeny: smiling warmly “Good. Then maybe I’ll stop pretending coffee is enough.”

Jack: grinning “Deal. We’ll toast to color.”

Jeeny: softly “To imagination.”

Host: The morning light flooded the room now, washing over the bright, absurd bowl between them — a small, stubborn testament to joy.

And as they sat there — two grown souls reclaiming a child’s wonder — Bill Watterson’s words came alive again, not as humor, but as gospel:

That joy is not immaturity,
but integrity —
the courage to stay unbroken by adulthood’s grayness.

That color, in all its ridiculousness,
is the pulse of imagination —
the proof that you still remember how to play.

That the world will always try to make your milk white again,
but life — real life —
is what happens when you choose the purple anyway.

Because wisdom without whimsy
is just survival in disguise,
and the truest art
is knowing when to put down your worries
and pick up the spoon.

Fade out.