A girl, some eggs and the market

I only like to write in the morning.

2 in the morning.

4 in the morning.

7 in the morning.

Anytime, really, in the morning.

This is highly inconvenient because:

1. I am asleep between 2 and 4 in the morning.

2. I feed the dogs at 7 in the morning.

Take away point-- there is not much time left in my morning for writing.

But this morning, between feeding the dogs and washing my hair, I started thinking about eggs. Because:

1. I need to eat more protein.

2. The dang chickens that live in the backyard and have three or four different names, each, will not lay eggs.

Anyway, I was thinking about eggs. In the morning. And because my mind is a wanderer, I started thinking about the girl who went to the market with a basket of eggs.

In case you were deprived of moralistic stories in your childhood, or in case you have no idea what story I'm talking about, let me tell you about the girl who went to the market with a basket of eggs.

There was a girl.

She walked to the market.

To sell her eggs.

But she put them all in one basket.

And she dropped the basket.

And all the eggs cracked.

And she was sad. And eggless.

So between making oatmeal and brushing my teeth, I started thinking about how you shouldn't put all your eggs in one basket. Because if your basket falls, and your eggs break, then you're just a girl with a basket full of vandalistic paint remover.

This led to full evaluation of my life via metaphor.

And what I concluded, between brushing my teeth and brushing my hair, is I shouldn't have been allowed to read fables as a child.

Because I have a tendency to over-think things. And sometimes people who hear stories about broken eggs and slippery basket handles, end up deciding to just collect 300 baskets and put one egg in each one.

But the thing about having 300 baskets, is that by the time you get half a dozen eggs to the marketplace, the sun has gone down, and all your customers are gone, and you're left with 300 baskets and a lot of eggs that might as well be vandalistic paint remover.

Are you with me?

No?

Well, what I'm trying to say is I'm indecisive.

And I'm blaming the basket story.

I also don't want to live in a log cabin.

Which is probably the fault of the Three Little Pigs.

And we can almost certainly trace my trust issues back to the story of Little Red Riding Hood.

So the moral of the story is:

Don't judge people;

You never know what nursery rhyme they heard as a child.

Also, buy chickens that lay eggs.

And finally, if you want to write in the morning, feed your dogs at night.

And they all lived happily ever after.

The End.