Yeah, this is a weird one even for me, but I felt compelled to have something here on a Sunday to fulfil my self-imposed contractual obligations. In hindsight, I probably could have gone with a nice self-questionnaire, which would have been much more entertaining and much less concerning.

But it’s 9.32pm and I’m tired.

I just spent like 30 minute punching out the dribble below and I don’t want that time to have gone to waste. I could have used that time pleasurably numbing my mind by unconsciously scrolling through social media on my phone, but I put my semi-operational brain to task.

And below is what I achieved when I told myself to “just write something, for heaven’s sake – ANYTHING”. I’m so sorry:

Alright so yesterday I went to make myself breakfast and grabbed a few eggs out of the fridge.

I went to put them in a saucepan for a cheeky soft boiler on toast. I was a little on the… delicate side after too much red wine and a few Tim Tams the night before and was in desperate need for some runny yolk, an excessive amount of butter and perfectly browned toast – golden, but none of that charcoal business that makes your breakfast taste like it was dropped in an the ashes of a campfire. I remember my dad once made a joke about how me and my sisters liked our toast “milky white” to one of my friend’s dads, as if it was a mark of maturity and toughness to eat burnt toast. I mean, I didn’t set out to go into a massive spiel about toxic masculinity, but if you’re being socialised to think that eating burnt bread is what makes you a man and enjoying toast without charcoal is for little girls, that’s pretty fucking toxic. Like, it’s bread, mate. It’s fucking bread. If the criteria for masculinity is so stringent that it dictates your toaster setting, we’ve got some serious problems.

Anyway, enough about the ridiculous hoops boys have to jump through to prove they’re worthy of being attached to their penises, back to the breakfast sitch.

I was weakened with hunger and regret. I needed food.

Something made me shake my eggs and one of them had an extremely off-putting feel to it. There was something in there, and it wasn’t just a bright yellow yolk. It sounded solid, but also squishy.

I made my housemates shake it and we squealed and squirmed like the stereotypical hysterical women that we are.

My curiosity and love of all things disgusting made me want to see what was inside, but my churning tummy held me back.

I decided that I was in too fragile of a state to crack open the egg, so I put it aside for when I was feeling up to it.

But then this morning rocked around and I was in an even worse state – even more red wine, even more Tim Tams and the additional affliction that was the kind of headache you can only get from screaming Celine Dion and Mariah Carey lyrics. It was a bad time.

Once again, I picked up the egg. And once again, I decided I was in no state to deal with the horror contained within that thin, beige shell.

So I put it back on the windowsill, leaving it for later.

Well, now it’s later. I’m still not in a good way. My stomach is being extremely bratty about this whole don’t-drink-alcohol-or-eat-sugar-and-refined-carbs thing. It still feels like I’ve just drunk warm milk and eaten a spoonful of chilli flakes.

So I haven’t cracked the egg. But now I don’t know what to do about it.

I can’t just chuck it in the bin – because it will inevitably crack. And the only thing worse than a half-formed chicken foetus is the smell of a half-formed chicken foetus that’s been sitting at room temperature among food scraps and rubbish. I could throw it off my balcony and out of my life, but I feel the potential for karmic forces to be unleased by what could very well be the offspring of an all-powerful chicken god isn’t worth the risk. And I could leave it on the balcony and hope a crow comes to pick at the horrific contents of the egg, but there’s a chance no birds will clean up my mess completely and I’ll have to clean it up myself two days later – which would be worse because the goo would have dried hard from the sun.

The only choice I’ve got is to take it down to my apartment’s rubbish room, but I’m already wearing my pony pyjama pants and jumper (which, incidentally, were bought separately but make for a bitchin’ bedtime ensemble). I’ve showered. I’ve been in my warm, cosy bedroom for hours. I don’t want to go down to the grubby rubbish room now.

So the egg remains in a cup on the windowsill.

I just really hope that neither of my housemates comes home after a Sunday sesh and decides to make themselves egg and soldiers.