Brunch, while not a geographic location in and of itself, is quite possibly the most wonderful place in the world. Since it is actually a meal or place in time, not a place on a map, there are near infinite actual locations where you can enjoy Brunch.
No one judges you for what society at large might call your faults, addictions, or vices. It's perfectly acceptable to get completely loaded before noon on a Sunday, so long as you've accompanied your booze with an omelet bursting with goat cheese, and smoked salmon. Brunch doesn't mind, and Brunch will only charge you an additional one dollar for egg whites and other substitutions. Brunch doesn't look at your scornfully if those substitutions happen to be sweet potato fries instead of home fires with your pancakes.
Brunch could be the most open minded place you'll find. It is quite possibly the Gayest meal in the history of mankind, in no small part because, like homosexuality, it is enjoyed by affluent, liberal New Yorkers, and you'd be hard pressed to find it openly practiced in Western Pennsylvania (or Iran, where, I hear, it doesn't even exist) but despite its complete and utter Gayness, you'll find all manner of sexualities at Brunch gobbling down tofu sausage, and swilling premixed bloody mary's together in perfect harmony. There are not haters or bigots at Brunch, or at least they've disguised themselves long enough to enjoy their biscuits and sausage gravy with eggs.
Before Brunch I was lost, wandering the Earth without purpose or place. Then I found it, nestled snugly in a pool of warm, runny grits. Each week since has been a bitter pause between Sunday brunches, an excruciating separation from that which I love above all else: dressed up comfort foods, dished out in ridiculously child sized portions, for which I am willing to pay exorbitant prices, out of a desperate need for even the most indirect human interaction.