Trust me. I know the real reason you strange people keep checking this site. It's the pictures, duh. We are all voyeurs at heart. I get it, really. So I'll give you all a run-through guided quicky-tour:

First the back story: A month ago I appeared in this city as clueless and helpless as a baby seal. It just so happened roommate 'Jay' happened to live here with an extra room, which I needed. I took it, moved my computer in, and here I am.

I own nearly nothing in this apartment. The cereal on the top of the shelf... the cutting board... a towel or two... and a pair of scissors are among my most prized possessions.

How long I plan to live this way... well that's just a question for the ages.

The iron box under the counter is the heater. The mail on the counter is Jay's. The bottle of rye is mine.

We do have a window, which looks onto our neighbors backyard. They own a shed AND a kiddie pool. It kills me. KILLS me.

They are the American Dream, personified.

The refrigerator contains mostly condiments sure, but it's OUR condiments.

Ok so they're Jay's, but I get to use them. In exchange, he uses my milk.

Ice trays. Thank god we own enough ice trays.

Ice is like the white t-shirt, in that it goes with anything. Complimenting anything from water to rye-whiskey.

I love this closet. A mop, a dustpan, some beans, and jar of protein. What more DOES one need? I freaking love it.

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But enough of this gay banter. Because it's omelet time.

The art of making omelet is the most impressive feat you could ever hope to learn. Perfect it whilst hung over, and the world is your oyster. What can one say to someone who hands them a plateful of delicious omelet?

Nothing. There is nothing to say. No words could ever do it justice. It is a symbol of life and innocence. Of truth, justice, and anything that has the potential of good.

It is the omelette.

When I make an omelet, I make bacon omelets. The cardinal rule is 1 bacon slice for 1 egg. Any other foodstuffs you toss in are just gravy. I'll usually do a 3... though its possible to go up to 5 without breaking the gluttony gate.

The key to the bacon omelets is the pan. Pour off the bacon-fat, maybe give it a wipe to rid some of the burnt spots... but that's it. No greasing, no Pam, no nothing. The eggs will come out perfect, every time.

another key:     Rye on the rocks.

Cooking bacon is a little trickier than boiling water. There's lots to think about... like the choice between raw bacon or overcooked bacon. You've got grease is spattering all over the place, and an urge to crank up the heat.

Just set it on low and poke em with a fork every so often, for there are other matters to attend to.

...like scrambling the eggs. The more you mix them, the less random your omelet will come out. Trust me, there is always a large 'random' factor with this meal and its best to minimize any potential hazard, so mix up doze eggz.

Its rare when I own vegetables... so I usually feel obliged to make 'things' from them. Cut these up while you fry the bacon. If you own any, of course. Peppers onions and tomatoes are my staples, so what a treat it is that I own all three. A treat for the ages.

Its not so uncommon to be in a pinch, so really, use anything in the fridge. Fry it up with the bacon if its looking a little groady. Use lettuce if you've got nothing else. The omelet won't deceive. It is our friend for life.

If you ever wondered where these came from. You have your answer. The corpses of hundreds and hundreds of bacon slices.

then pour the eggs. Keep the pan hot, and the heat on low.

Now toss on whatever. Cheese is important. Black pepper is too. Hot sauce if you've got it.

Notice now, that I only threw it over one half of the omelet. Can you guess why? I bet you can, I KNOW you can...

YES! Because we FLIP the omelet. Its what keeps the ruffians on their side of the tracks. Let them have their scrambled mess of eggs. They are fools, every one of them. We are the omelet eaters. The ones who rule, the ones who decide.

My goodness that looks good. Its an omelet, only slightly overcooked. And its mine, all mine.

Take the time, however, to reflect on the omelet. Learn from it. What went right, what went wrong? Learn from the mistakes of life or else its barely life at all.

I truly believe that more life morals can be extracted from an omelet than an entire decade of silent meditation.

Love me, and love the omelet too.

Lord knows I do.

So why shouldn't you?