Seneca accuses me of putting all my “eggs” in one “basket.” By basket Seneca means men, and the basket I’m in right now, Izzy. I usually put one egg in the basket at a time. I’m basically monogamous. If the egg breaks, or if I feel like switching it, I try not to worry about the gooey mess. But Seneca’s right, there’s no denying it, egg breaking is traumatic. It sends a shock to my nervous system. I twitch, I spasm, I shiver, I shit. I convulse, I’ve pulled hairs out, I chew my bottom lip. I don’t eat, I can’t sleep, my tongue is as parched as if I’m walking in a desert. After a while, I see it for what it is, a splat’s a splat. I move on. I hate runny eggs.
Lodged in my brain.
Gross, Susana. Maggie Scratch. Barcelona: The Blue Shepherd Press, 2013.