Cause I'm cool like that...

I have a scrapbook I keep under my bed thats full of tickets. I've been collecting stubs since I was thirteen. For some reason it seems if I don't keep some physical form of evidence that these events took place, I wouldn't even remember I was there. 

However, it is hard to forget the trip I took to Europe with my friend Cameron a few years ago. Above is a page in my scrapbook I filled with plane tickets and the like from when we traveled around Spain, Italy and the Netherlands. Impounded in my memory is of course the Spanish prostitute loitering outside our hostel in Gran Via who always wore the same tangerine colored dress and could be persuaded by a Big Mac and fries. Seeing my favorite painting, "The Garden of Earthly Delights" by Hieronymus Bosch at the Prado in Madrid certainly sticks as well. Even the barrage of Italian men rushing down the alleyway in Rome to whisk Cameron and I off with a "kiss" is unforgettable. 

However, having documented proof in some kind of collage, nestled neatly under my bed helps remind me of where I was and that I was legitimately there. My memory then tends to lapse and fill in the gaps of what I thought I remembered rather than what actually happened. 

I like knowing that there were specific dates and times that coincide with these memories that will never blur with time. 

Warming up the keys

I eat eggs almost everyday. Usually scrambled and mixed with that 100% egg white stuff you can get in cartons at the grocery store. 

Just like any other day, I sharply cracked the egg over the pan. However, this time a little bit of shell dropped in to the mix just before it started to fry. I fingered around the liquid a little, trying to coerce it to the side of the pan to no avail. I used a fork to sift it out, yet again, still stuck in there and now seconds were precious before the the egg really started to cook. 

Sadly, I couldn't find this damn bit of egg shell. I prodded and pried, but it just made the shell seem as if it evaporated right into the egg whites. I hunched over the stove as I scraped the egg into its scrambled state, still looking to see if I could maybe separate it from the mix. 

The egg finished cooking and I dumped it onto my plate, my nose practically snorting egg up them as I tried to scrupulously to find what was now a consuming obsession. No shell. I now started eating them, thinking this would be the time it couldn't get away; this inopportune time where I would feel the little crack of a hard shell between my teeth and finally find this sucker. 

I ate the whole plate of eggs. Each bite took longer than the next. I swirled my tongue around each bite, trying to see if I could catch it without biting down. I was intent on finding this shell, and all of a sudden, there was nothing left to worry about. I must have eaten the shell unknowingly. It's in my stomach right now, I might even have some indigestion from it although that has yet to take effect. 

Could this elusive shell be a metaphor for life? Could we constantly scrutinize each little imperfection, each small mistake or slip-ups til it seemingly means everything to us? Perhaps swallowing your troubles and moving on is what it takes to realize that those mistakes make little to no difference on the bigger plate in life. It's how we move on from them that really matters.

My eggs were delicious, just like every other day, with or without the shell. 

I'll keep you posted on the indigestion...that could be a whole other layer to this metaphor. 

The Virginal Blogger

This is me. Popped my blog cherry today...