To Make an Omelet

The egg bounced from the edge of the bowl and back into my hands before it made a final descent to a shattering meet and greet with the floral linoleum. The Jorkie was intrigued.

Stuck now with three eggs in the styrofoam container to make tomorrow’s two-egg omelet. In my Thanosian need for balance, this third egg will bother me to no end; the solution, clearly, is to grill burgers and fry up that third egg as a topping. Mem: grill burgers, soon.

It took me three months to make the decision to make the previous iteration of The Informalities my primary online expression, to make my site the place where I shared everything. It's taken just three days to decide to do the same here – a balancing act, perhaps, or just an excuse to write about / process a falling egg. Or maybe I flubbed the analogy. Not sure. Don't really care.

Decision based not on my usual battles with anxiety, but the inescapable feeling that Twitter is that third egg: while it is clearly helpful to many, I’m not among them – I can’t shake the feeling that the birdsite isn't making me a better writer but rather a more available author (whose phone number may have been shared with advertisers; thanks, Twitter). And, as I've nothing to sell or to promote and no new release on the horizon, I'd rather focus on being a better writer and on making this site something unique – something uniquely mine, whatever that means; an endless essay collection punctuated with dog pictures and other assorted ephemera, a midwestern zuihitsu.

P.S: My omelet recipe: combine two eggs – not three – with two tablespoons of water, tumeric, kosher salt, pepper, Italian seasoning; add combo to a hot skillet (crank it to ten) with one and a half tablespoons butter, stir a bit and step away. Let the edges solidify, pop in three slices of provolone til it melts, take off the heat and roll from skillet onto plate with metal spatula. Eat.

Listening: GHOSTEEN, by Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds.