I broke an egg on the way home from the supermarket.

The other week when I got home from the supermarket, I was unpacking one of my grocery bags and I realized that I had carried the eggs wrong, and one at the corner of the carton had gotten its side crushed in from pressing against my arm or my side or whatever as I had been carrying it.

That part of the carton was soaked, so I took out as many eggs as I could from that part of the carton, and I put them in the empty slots of a container of eggs that I had in the fridge that I wasn't done with yet.

Then, I carefully tore the cardboard carton halfway down, so that one half was dry with eggs in it, and the other half had the wet part that I was going to go throw out.

On top of all of this, the yolk and some of the white was left in the bottom part of the one broken egg, and I manged to boil that and eat it, so I even saved half the egg.

Basically, when I was boiling up some water to put some pasta in, I floated the bottom part of the egg on the top of the heating water, and it stayed there for a bit like a boat and then water got in it and the egg sunk, but the yolk and the white stayed inside it and they congealed and cooked up instead of getting all stringy in the bubbles and currents of the boiling water, and that little bottom part formed like a little teacup bowl with a bit of egg in it, that I could get at by peeling the sides of the egg away.

I wouldn't normally do that with a broken egg, but it wasn't like that when I left the store, so I knew that the egg wasn't spoiled or anything, and I wouldn't get sick from eating it.

Observation of a very old resthome resident, who wants to die.

One of the resthome residents really really wants to die, since she's so old and she's in such decline.

It's not a depression thing, more of a tired / pain and an it's-just-time thing, and her kids know her attitude and are okay with it, and she has a "Do Not Resuscitate" order, too, and now it's just a matter of waiting.

The other day we were talking about random stuff, including a lot of politics, and then she mentioned again that she just wants to die already.

"And I want to take him with me," she was like, meaning Trump.

"In that case, [her name]," I was like, "Please go quickly!".

She got a kick out of that.

Addendum.

You really don't think about it until you type it out (or at least I don't?), but "deodorant" is really like "de-" and "odor" and maybe like an "-ant" suffix from Latin, where it's the thing that takes the odor off of you.

I dropped the top of my deodorant in the bathroom.

It fell and then bounced off the wall and then skittered, and it ended up on top of a small black floor tile, some of which appear every know and then between the much bigger white tiles, that make up most of my bathroom floor.

An exploded pen, and an interaction afterwards.

The other week, I was commuting in to work at my one private client's house, and I took a pen out of my bookbag in order to write up my to-do list for the coming week.

All of a sudden, then, I notice a black smear on the back of the envelope that I was using for my list, and I lift up my pen to look at it, as I notice that my hand is all smeared up with the same black ink from my pen, which I guess had gotten cracked up somehow and broken in my backpack, to the point where all the black ink would leak out.

So, I set it down on the floor of the subway car so I wouldn't get dirty anymore, and so I could pick it up carefully when I got off to go and throw it out, so some employee for the public transit company wouldn't have to go and do it like I was some slob or something.

And, so I could use my phone to read news articles and whatnot, I rubbed my hands all together, to spread the ink out so that it would dry quicker, so I could use my hands until I finally got to my client's house and I could go wash my hands there.

Finally, when I did get there, I washed my hands, but little bits of ink remained on my nails and on the side of my right hand, where I guess I hadn't washed carefully enough.

When I saw my client, then, I raised up my hands and was like, "Just so you know, my pen broke on the ride here and I got ink all over my hands, I wasn't finger-f*cking a chimney sweep or anything like that."

. . .

She liked that joke, she has a dirty sense of humor.

Uneven cuticles.

It drives me crazy sometimes how your cuticles look after you press them down.

Especially on the cuticles on my index fingers, they look uneven.

My pinkie and thumb cuticles are tough to push down, too, but that's a separate matter, and more about the odd angle that you have to come in from in order to go push them down.

Two people on public transportation:

1) A (young) (black) guy with his head wrapped in one of those shiny doo-rag scarves, and sunk in his phone, who gets up as soon as he sees a(n elderly) (black) lady with a cane get on board, to give his seat to her.

2) A (middle-aged) (black) man with weird orange sunglasses and an orange backpack that he scoots under his seat, who strikes up a conversation with the woman next to him in too-loud a voice, and who seems off, and who towards the end of his ride lets out a loud belch as he's sitting there sprawled out and staring straight forward, and is like, "Excuse me," in his too-loud voice.