Eggs and Bacon: A Soliloguy

Have you ever made eggs and bacon? At 1am? After a night of disappointment and angst? (Did I really just use the word "angst"? Yes. Yes I did.  To my shame.)  Then you know how glorious it is.  You start the bacon in the skillet, obviously heating it up well and good before putting it on, then turning it down to low.  It sizzles and pops on the hot surface.  You get ready for bed, carefully listening to it hiss its' last on your stove top.  You thank the pig for its' brutal sacrifice.  But at 1 am, you're just tipsy enough not to care enough to really dwell on the horror that is factory farming (no doubt where your food has come). As you wait and listen, you feel the bitter pang of disappointment - of the evening, of people, but mostly, of the non-openness of the Chinese restaurant upon which the hopes and dreams and full stomach-nessed of your evening rested.  You head towards the bathroom to do your night's ablutions as the fat in the pan steams and wisps your way.  Your keen sense of hearing can tell it's juuuuust time to turn the strips of pig-flesh over to ensure proper done-ness.  Again, you try to ignore the factory farm horror-story.  Instead, you play with your cat, who has missed your presence all day and can be no happier than to be in your arms, purring, and licking your face.  Finally, oh, finally, you know it is time to add the golden egg.  You walk to the stove and see the near doneness of your pig-fat and flesh.  You take a cool, oblong shell out of the case, feeling its weight in your hand.  Mercilessly, you bring it down on the edge of the pan, hearkening forth its golden glory. Cold, wet, it falls into the hot, sparking hell that is the skillet, doomed along-side the stripes of bacon.  The pan is so hot, the golden-white nugget starts cooking before you can even grab your tool of ultimate destruction: the blue spatula of doom.  You swiftly grab your weapon and set to work, decimating, seasoning, and stirring your foe and food.  Before you quite realize what has happened, it is over.  Your instrument of glory is covered in the golden gore that is your egg.  The pig-fat oil has effectively sizzled your food to perfection, and you plop it delicately on a red plate - symbolic of your hard-won conquest, is it not?  At last, you retire to your abode, to enjoy the ministrations of your attendant and enjoy the meat and egg of your labour.  As you shovel it hastily, unashamedly, and perfectly into your mouth, you realize, everything is a little bit better...with bacon grease.