As I nudge a slice of bread away from its loaf, it pushes open the door of the medicine cabinet where someone inexplicably placed it, revealing a vast, untidy bathroom. If my slice can somehow reach the hairdryer on the other side of the room, it'll be able to toast itself to perfection. It shouldn’t be possible, but the slice flops forward, gripping the cabinet door with one of its corners. Slowly I swing it upward, grab the door with a different corner, and repeat the motion until the slice reaches the top of the cabinet – which turns out to be surrounded by mildew. As the bread's edibility rapidly diminishes, I reflexively lurch it away, only to watch helplessly as it plummets toward the watery floor and soggy doom. It's moments like this that typify I Am Bread: awkward, frustrating, and a little exhausting, but with just enough bizarre charm to justify another try.
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