I’m out in the world now, trying to be an adult. I’ve got a kitchen with a stove and oven and refrigerator all to myself. The doctors tell me my diet is shit and I’ll die one day. I tell them we’ll all die one day, but they miss the point.

So I was in the grocery store the other day and found myself standing in front of the eggs. I like eggs, I thought. And they seem easy enough to cook. So I bought a dozen and have been making fried egg and cheese sandwiches for lunch. No big deal. But eggs freak me out. Every time I crack one open, I half expect a baby chicken to fall into my buttered frying pan. I know this is unreasonable.

I did eight years in the Army. Military police. Got some medals, a few citations, the governor of Kentucky once shook my hand. No big deal. The Army fed me lots of eggs. But never once did I see an actual egg. In the Army the only good egg is one that’s dropped into a giant metal bowl—shell and all—with hundreds of thousands of others. Throw in some ham and cheese and stir. Bake in industrial ovens and cool on conveyor belts before being pressed down like a sponge and vacuum-sealed in high impact plastic and shipped to the troops. To be as good twenty years from now as today.

I got out of the Army eight years ago. And still I’d rather eat a ham and cheese omelet Hot Pocket than make an actual ham and cheese omelet. Maybe it’s time to stop blaming my laziness on the Army.