Lemme tell you about the time I broke into somebody's apartment.
Back in college, my friends and I, we hung out in a buddy's apartment. No, that's not quite true. We practically lived there. It was like a hippie commune, only with less beards. Our excuse was that we were a theater group. The reality was we only produced a couple of stage plays in the span of the four years our organization was active. Because we were drunk on Tanduay Rhum most of the time. But we always talked about producing more plays. And then we'd get drunk again and pass out and forget all about it.
Between the getting drunk part and the passing out part, there are a lot of things I did that I cannot recall with clarity. Jumping off a balcony is one. Making demonic sigils on walls using lighter fluid and then setting it on fire is another. Yet the one drunken dickery that for some strange reason I can remember with crystal meth clarity is breaking into a neighbor's apartment.
Because I wanted boiled fucking eggs.
There were two of us that night. He knows who he is, of course, but for prudence's sake, I'll leave his name out of this tale. Anyway, there were two of us that night and we were hungry and we had a couple of raw eggs and we had a pot and we had a broken electric stove. Life is comprised of little victories that stave off the meaninglessness of existence and that broken stove was all that was standing between us and the night's little victory. By God, we will have our boiled egg, we thought.
So, two eggs swimming in a pot of tap water in one hand, I went out and broke into the apartment next door by sticking a spatula into the door jamb. The dude who lived there had a gas stove. Jackpot. I turned on the stove, placed the pot atop it, and went back to my bud to shoot the shit while we were waiting for the eggs to cook.
And then the dude who lived next door passed by. My bud and I looked at each other and continued talking, all the while listening to the dude next door. His footsteps stopped abruptly, probably because he noticed his door was open. We heard him entering his apartment with exceedingly slow footsteps, probably waiting for a ninja to jump him. Then there were a few minutes of silence and I could imagine him looking in disbelief at the pair of eggs boiling in a stranger's pot on his stove. Finally, we heard the him turning off the stove.
Next day, we found our pot in the garbage. Of our eggs, there was nary a sign. To this day, I still wonder if the dude next door ate them.