Scream. No, goshly goodness no, no, but no, no, no I don't crack eggs. No.
Too violent, oh no, no egg cracking here, goodlomess no. I can't crack eggs,
the trauma, both both real and inherent, and unreal and uninherent, oh no,
no, I can't be dealing with trauma, not right now, no, no, lock the door,
don't crack the eggs, oh no. Scary. No, I can't crack the eggs, it's just
wanton violence in a culinary setting, and that's oh no, no, that's oh, no,
no, not someone I want to be. I didn't think when I was a small child, my
whole future ahead of me and my whole past ahead of me that I'd want to be
some violent egg-cracking psychopath hell-bent on compounding words and
giving albumen compound fractures, oh no, no that's not the me I envisaged.
Crying kills me, pain kills me, bullets kill me, cracked eggs kill me, oh
no, no I can't cope.
Oh cripes, no, but I soak them overnight in vinegar, these eggs, because, oh
no, but yes, no, yes I soak them overnight in vinegar to dissolve the
shells. It means planning ahead for meals, but no, but yes, it means that,
oh no, yes it means there aren't any horrible violent scenes of egg
cracking, just an egg-filled one-holeless spermicide-free lubricant-free
more-easily-torn less-available-in-chemists-and-toilets
only-to-be-used-as-a=last-contraceptive=resort strong-taste-of-vinegar
floppy egg shelless thing that bursts open in the pan. Oh, but that's
violent, but it's really all I can cope with. I do weep, oh no, I do: I weep
every time that egg bursts open, and I think of all its little egg wives,
and its big egg child with his big brash outer shell and soft squishy
inside, in slightly stark contrast to people with their squishy exterior,
squishy interior, except for a few hard interior bits, and teeth which are a
little more outside than in, and compound fractures which are a little more
outside than in, but have a direct route to a squishy bit inside a hard bit
with the marrow that can be followed well back inside, and it's all so
violent. Oh the violence kills me.
It's all so cruel, no really it is, it's cruel, the cracking, the smashing,
the violence. Humane deaths, please. Oh, but the poor eggs, and poor me
having to witness the repetitious trauma of egg after egg being cracked, it
takes its toll, really it does. They have it worse, they do, oh but they do:
they die and I get to go home with their wives and child. They have it worse
than me, but that doesn't mean I don't have it bad, that being an unwilling
witness to their violent deaths (when I'm out of vinegar) doesn't tear me
apart inside like a mutant killer virus, oh but it's all just so painful, so
wrong. I'm not angling for compensation, I don't want a parade, I just want
understanding that it's not just the sufferers who suffer, and that, yes, oh
but yes, yes that I do everything I can, that I try to help these poor
little eggs live out their remaining few hours not shattered and splattered.
I give them false hope, I promise a beautiful world of vaginas and penises,
and then drop them in a firepan to pop and splatter. I'm not saying it's
right, but it's more right than what usually goes on, and still goes on when
there's, oh no, but yes, yes, when there's no more vinegar, but the poor
little eggs, I do cry for them, but I'd like to do so much more, oh but it
hurts, oh no, but no, yes, no, but no, no, the pain I feel you wouldn't
understand, oh no.