if I see one more poached egg i’m gonna puke.

27 Mar

I. Just. Can’t. Eat. Any. More. Eggs.

I’m changing my husband’s name to Benedict Harry and am considering selling him on eBay. It’s not that I don’t think he’s awesome, and I really do understand how meticulous the planning of a (popup) restaurant menu is. But honestly? When do we get to the fucking pancakes and hash brownies? I have gotten drippy yolk on every outfit I’ve worn in the past week. My Asian dry cleaner is getting insanely suspicious.
“It’s egg! It’s egg!” I shout as she winks at me, as though we’re in cahoots.
The eggs are destroying my reputation among the Asian world. All I have left are Heejun from American Idol (he won’t answer my tweets, which is such bullshit but whatevs) and Charlie, who is totally going to stop talking to me tomorrow when he reads this and finds out that Heejun is STILL my #1 favorite Asian.


Poetry Tuesday!


No more eggs.
Eggs no more.
Please put your eggs back in your drawer.
I truly do not want to fight
But all I dream is yolks and whites
I’m glad you’re trying recipes
But switch the main ingredient, please
I used to love that runny goo
Now I want them thrown at you.
I want to kick them very far
I will not eat them at the bar.
I cannot eat them on a plate
Stop poaching, take me on a date!
I will not them mix them in a cake
I will not pair them with a steak
I do not want them in my bed
I do not want them fried instead.
I don’t prefer them green or brown
I really can’t keep poached eggs down.
If they were pancakes I’d have ten
And then I’d eat those ten again.
If you throw in chocolate chips
I’ll eat pancakes while I skip
But you just want to make more eggs
Although I puke and cry and beg
I just don’t care if we are married
I won’t eat your dumb eggs, Harry.

Don’t forget to make your reservations via our half-assed new website!! Hashbrown Harry’s


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