Poached eggs and the meaning of life

Understanding myself, or at least the attempts of it, seems to be, at the moment, my most serious preoccupation. Constantly, I attempt to find out who I really am and why I do what I do. This is in the hopes that once I find out how I tick I will unravel the real essence of my being, the real reason for existing. No wait, I don’t believe that we have a significant reason for being. I just know or believe that we have to find a reason, or a purpose, in order exist peacefully in this seemingly insignificant world. So constantly I look inside. It is a purely inward journey with the outside world barging in every now and then. Trying to find out how I work, however, is proving to be quite a difficult task. It’s like Mario Brothers all over again. I’m trying to jump from one castle to another, slaying dragons and eating mushrooms, climbing flag poles and crawling through green sewages only to be told at the end of the journey that the princess is in another castle. The princess, of course, is myself and I need to save her because, well, we only have three lives to live and I have already wasted my first two.

And this, my friend, is my cue to laugh. Haha. Punyeta, what have I been smoking?

It’s three in the afternoon on a Wednesday. I am alone with no intentions of doing anything. I just learned how to poach an egg and I just discovered who Hamilton Morris is. Poached eggs. Artisanal shit. Cooking. Vice. What in hipster hell is this.


No, seriously what have I been smoking? 

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