you know that thing where you read too much and then you think your life’s a book?
I feel like a sketch of myself as I hurriedly carry the dozen eggs home in one hand, arm bent. I feel like a character more than a person, as though each action I take is merely a literary device serving a function in someone’s strange analysis. I am a trope of consumption or reproduction as I carefully protect the eggs. I foreshadow the crisis where the eggs shatter on the floor. I am interior narration, a look into the human psyche, a walking stream of consciousness.
This was my childhood (sort of). Also, when I was getting ready in the morning, I used to envision my morning routine as the opening credits of the movie. Like the first shot would show just my hand hitting the snooze button and the last shot before the movie actually started would show me lacing up my shoes.
