I don’t know what it means that the last three times I have tried to hard-boil eggs, I have been unsuccessful. I crack the little suckers, and they won’t peel. Then when I finally get them open, there is a rubbery yellow mess in the middle. I used to be able to cook. Then again, I used to be able to balance my checkbook, but shit happens. Maybe this whole egg thing is a sign. Maybe this means I’m going “soft”, as in I’m no longer a hard ass mother-lovin’ bitch who hates all men and wants them to die a slow and painful death, but not before I dig their eyeballs out with a spork. I mean, maybe I’ve been rehabilitated. I should be let out into the civilized world again, no longer a danger to society or myself (obviously, my mental health is in tip-top shape…haven’t stepped on that blasted scale in DAYS). But maybe these stupid eggs are telling me more. Maybe they’re saying, “don’t count your chickens, Moron!”
Right now, I swear, a butterfly just flew past my cubicle. WTF?
Anyway…eggs are incredible. You know, “the incredible, edible egg”? Who the hell came up with that slogan? Sure, they’re tasty…WHEN THEY”RE COOKED ALL THE WAY! And they are very versatile…I love them scrambled, overeasy, hard-boiled, in an omelette. I like to think that I am like an egg, ever changing and capable of solidifying into an oval mass of goodness…or quite able to be a runny yolk, waiting to be soaked up. What does that even mean? I don’t know…pretend it’s one of those “create your own ending books” and make something up. This is Stream of Consciousness Interpretation Hour–go nuts.