For Some Reason, Nicole Scherzinger Comes To Mind. You’ll See…


Wouldn’t life be simpler if we all just had less stuff?

I mean yes, the mass acquisition of hairdryers and just-opened face creams that will even out those fine lines is important; you never know when you might grow an extra head that needs blow-drying and well, void of the creams, our bathroom shelves would take on a sudden abandoned Albanian warehouse feel. Is an empty bathroom cabinet just a new Cold War?

No, I mean stuff. The Suitcases Of Life. The more it weighs, the more you pay.

The mis-matched friends, one always inside out. You found her like that, so like that she will stay. The pamphlet that came with The Manual To Life. You keep it in the top drawer between the Really Important Stuff and the microwave warranty. You’ll never read it. You either know it all already; always did, always will and Don’t Need Instructions.

Or you’ve accepted.

Elements of life will always be pseudo-Swedish. Self-assemble. Break along the way because the bracket that was supposed to be a screw is in fact a really small tumour and helplines are closed on weekends. So you’ll try and put the thing together yourself. Call a friend who’s “good with things”. The manual? Well, it’s there as backup but let’s face it, the only growth it will ever really produce is a fine layer of dust.

It’s like clearing out your bookmarks folders. When was the last time you did that? Never. You don’t. You just create new ones. Because there are job specs and apartments you never visited and amazon urls for good eyeliner- of which, let’s make this clear now, there are none. There are only people good with eyeliner.

There’s useful stuff, though. The extension cord friends. Now they’re good. Totally useless on their own, but hook them up to shit that’s already there and my, doesn’t the room come alive?

The bottom drawer olive branches for the moments you’re as much at a loose end physically as you are metaphorically.

You envy those who don’t need extension cords. You know the kind I mean. Roll out of bed every morning at 7.05am looking like an Oxford shirt press just ran over a Malibu beach barbie in the most choreographed collision ever. They have no loose ties. No loose ends. No split ends. Just split peas in their quinoa, lentil and leaf rocket lunch salad.

Never could figure out how they needed fewer sockets. Then I realised, they need fewer plugs. Three, maybe. Phone, laptop and the worst. Spare. Christ, they even have spare time.

I am highly suspect of people without the need for spare extension cords. That’s why you people wear cable-knit sweaters, isn’t it?

I know you and I hate you. Your printer never runs out of colour ink even though you and everyone else on this fucking planet only prints in black and white. You find your flat immediately. The viewing was on your way home from work and anyway, by the time you’d signed, your girlfriend was just about done with finishing touches of her eyeliner to meet you for dinner. She eats Italian and doesn’t make a mess. She’s a good eyeliner person. I hate her too.

You never had to quit anything; jobs, cigarettes. You don’t even have to Force Quit. You are Control, have Alternatives and you never need to Delete because you never make mistakes.

You have one pitfall, though. It’s not a big one, but it’s explained, for instance, by the fact that I’ve long unfollowed you on Facebook.

You’re boring. I can’t even decide if I you rank higher or lower than the distressed cut-offs. You’re literally so dull, I can’t decide how dull.

If you’re a recruiter who’s somehow landed on this page and made it this far, feel free to add “not dull” to her list of qualities. If you’re unsure as to its being a “marketable” quality, ask yourself this. Is the product you sell more or less interesting than The Comprehensive History Of Drains? If yes, good. because consumers generally like versatility and also congratulations on having avoided an industry where you’re grateful the default wallpaper on your smartphone is primarily a giant clock. If no, you’ve properly lucked out. Because I make drains sound fucking epic.


I don’t know what I was expecting, here


Soupologie’s broccoli & matcha green tea soup is 32% broccoli and 0.02% matcha green tea.


I propose a new blend. Melon & Broccoli; Meloncholy!


The Shit People Put In Their Mouths, These Days


Kale is not a food. It’s something Waitrose stitched together then dyed green to fill the gap in the market between cabbage and moisturiser for people who’ve spent too long on yoga mats.

You know what’s real? Unicorn Milk. I love this lot. It’s like they took Care UK’s most special people, made them a bit more special, gave them a pen and were like, you know what? Whatever you write down? That’s what we’re gonna name this stuff. Seriously. Whatever the fuck ends up on that paper.

Think I’m joking? I have a friend who vapes Bird Brains.

Also, what the fuck, Vampire Vape? You have the genius to name these two to literally fly off your shelves and they’re not even blue?



The egg may walk or crawl or swim or simply sit, Amoebic shell. It is too soon to tell, What yonder lies beneath the swell. A brownish, Reddish, zygote beige. Too young to show the signs Of age, my eggy man is incognito. Like little man of apple seed, no colour yet or type or creed, Just edges of potential, minus the credentials. What form or frame or shape his yoke will take does not compute, For now he bakes. Cocooned in territories uncharted, His little life has not yet started. Embryonic Oompa Loompa, Floating in your membrane sea. I cannot see or feel or hear your Little cries or shouts of glee. Or sorrow. Perhaps Tomorrow I will know, what lies beneath your mystic glow. If you walk, will you walk tall and saunter down your sunny street, And nod goodday to other eggs who cross your path for you to greet. And if you crawl, will you be quick or slow or, Somewhere in between. Perhaps more hunched than svelte, I hope On others you need not lean. And if you Swim in waters clear, will they turn murky green, or steer Away from others’ tainted touch. Your strength is yours to hold, In hand or palm or chaos, calm. And if your calling simply is to sit amoebic in your shell, Hold high your head when others pass and laugh At your expense and swell your little yellow chest. You’re no more feeble than the rest. While they may climb The highest mountains, save the earth and cure the ill, You are my little fountain, small, exquisite. Yes you will.

© Rebecca Cukier 2009

© Harvard University Press 2009

via Daily Prompt: Egg