Our world is full of phenomena, both natural and human. Psychology guides all of our thoughts, emotions and decisions. It can point our lives in a multitude of directions, yet eventually it just aims me at Perkins.

Personally, I believe the greatest study in human behavior is when it is not only socially acceptable, but an exercise of pure euphoria. Fall into what I call, “The Window of Wallowing,” however, and be sentenced to a meal of shame, self-evaluation, and enough butter to clog an elephant heart.

If one were to graph the proper time to procure the plentiful and puffy Perkins pancakes, it would create a reverse bell curve. In layman’s terms, it’s a great idea in the morning, a progressively bad idea through the afternoon, and amazing at night.

Let’s start with the morning. Perkins, as a breakfast joint, is an obvious choice. You wake up, you’re grouchy and sore, and you just don’t want to do anything. Start your day with a short-stack and you’ll be a happy, if sluggish, ball of buttermilk rolling from one place to the other.

Things get a little trickier as you get into the afternoon. From about noon to maybe four-thirty, Perkins is only for the fool-hearty and the manically depressed.

There’s no excuses and no feeling of “ooh, so naughty” that late into the day. Just poor decision making. Ladies, if a guy wants to take you to Perkins for lunch, you cut and run.

There is obviously something wrong with him on a fundamental level. Fellas, if you want to take a girl to Perkins for lunch, just take her to Panera or something instead and hide your clearly deep-seeded flaws until she feels somewhat invested in you.

And now, my friends, is the beautiful part of the story. The one that gives you that fuzzy feeling in your tummy.

The land of buttermilk and honey.

Perkins at night. From the early-bird hours to about ten o’clock, it’s notably noteworthy. After that however, you get into what I like to call “Prime Stoner Hours.” I don’t partake myself, but I know who to follow for midnight snacks.

Yes, this is the time for flocking to places like Taco Bell and McDonald’s, but the king of all 2 a.m. treasure troves is Perkins. The pancakes, the pie, the bacon, the cup of coffee to make it all last just a bit longer.

Hallelujah, the savior of salivation has come serve us a slice of simple, sugary salvation!

Yay, followers of the food that shall forge the foundation of a flavorful fortification against the forces of famish that face our fruitful faith in fried, fatty goodness. Let there be two messages to deliver to the masses:

First, around midnight my alliteration, although arbitrary to the point of asininity and accumulating an altogether atrocious amount of this article, is absolutely above all other attempts at articulation achievable by anyone less adept than the artisan that is myself, accompanied by my aimless actuation of a will to animate actuality. OK I’ll stop.

Second, if someone you care about has never experienced such unadulterated joy in life, it is your duty to guide them. You are the one who must spread the joy like butter on a pancake. If one can no longer count on psychology to do the right thing, we as decent human beings must take up the mantle ourselves! So come on, come all! To the greatest meal you’ve ever had at six hours after you’ve eaten dinner!