I am feeling much like this egg.

Pierced and broken. Insides pouring out.

But I suppose that is to be expected when life falls apart around you.  Paris has been wonderful to me since I arrived, except where Croque Madams have been concerned. So the fact that they have all been really, really bad comes as no surprise. It’s actually quite ironic.  And yet, I keep ordering them. As though by some miracle I will find one that makes me happy, if only for a little while.

Afterall, what else can I do?