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When you are growing up, you are an egg wishing to be a cake. It hurts to be so small. You have this horrible shell. You live in a dark carton. No one notices how different you’re from the other eggs. Then one day you are a cake. You are sweet. You are decorated. People celebrate with you. Nevertheless, you wish you could go back to being an egg.
This is life. I have lived for 160, 170 years. I was an egg for 15 years. I was a cake for a little while after that. Mostly I have been digested material and that’s become my field of expertise. But people keep asking me about being an egg. “What was it like when you were young, Grandma?” “What were you like as a child?”
I tell them it doesn’t matter. Eggs are not very interesting until you break them, and even then, they’re nothing special until you eat them, and even then they are still just eggs, no matter how much sugar you add. It’s all eggs. What’s to say?
Even so, I talk about eggs too much. Here’s why: Now that I’m old, and I’ve made sense of almost everything, I’m left with this one mysterious image in my mind. It’s all I see so it’s all I talk about. I see an egg, beside a round cake, beside a woman.
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