Everything’s bigger in Texas—including the regret.
Somewhere in the middle of BFE Texas, it happened. Two miles down the road from a dusty gas station, the betrayal hit me like a freight train: gas station hard-boiled eggs. They sat there, all innocent in their little plastic container, whispering promises of protein and convenience—but they were traitors.
The Texas sun was doing its best to cook me alive—hot as Hades, the kind of heat where your sweat sweats. And let me tell you something: when they say there’s no humidity in Texas? They lie. The air clung to me like judgment in a Baptist church on a Sunday, while the sun hovered above like a personal heat lamp, daring me to breathe.
Rob was waiting in the car, tapping his foot, muttering, “Hurry up, we don’t have all day.”
Oh, Rob. You sweet, clueless man. I wanted to yell back,
There’s no stopping this train! It’s already left the station!
But I had no strength left to explain.
I stumbled into the bathroom, hoping for relief. Instead, I found a Texas nightmare. Half-stalls that offered views instead of privacy. Walls that stopped halfway up, like they gave up on the concept of dignity. A wide-open skyline view of BFE Texas—because who doesn’t want to see the sunset while they’re fighting for their life?
Flies were mating on my drumsticks. Mating. I sat there, trapped, sweat pouring, stomach cramping, the scent of dust, cheap soap, and my own slow demise wafting in on the breeze.
And then, the sound—clink, clink, clink—the jingle of a dog’s tags outside, and a couple talking softly, like they were out for a leisurely afternoon stroll. Their voices drifted in like a gentle breeze. I sat there in the stall, dying, praying they didn’t hear me, praying the wind didn’t deliver a sample of my suffering. And if it did… maybe they’d think their precious poodle ate roadkill.
And just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, a Hispanic woman sat in the stall next to me… FaceTiming her kid. Like she was in a coffee shop, just chatting away, smiling, letting her child see the bathroom sky and stained brick wall behind her.
Her voice rang out, all bright and cheerful:
“¡Hola, mija!”
And there I was, gripping the walls like a tornado was ripping through my intestines, thinking, Lady, now is not the time for a virtual family reunion.
Meanwhile, I was fighting for my life in Stall Two, and she was catching up with her kindergartener like it was just another Tuesday.
But then… she fell silent. A pause. A breath that hitched.
And I knew: the eggs had claimed another.
We were in this together now—two strangers, united by the betrayal of gas station eggs, the half-stalls of Texas, the humidity they swear doesn’t exist, and the absurd, silent prayers that maybe the breeze would pin blame on the dog instead.
Outside, Rob scowled. “Hurry up already,” he called.
But there was no hurrying. My stomach was still pissed off, rumbling like an angry storm that wasn’t done yet. This wasn’t a bathroom break—it was a full-blown survival saga.
When I finally emerged, pale, drenched, my legs shaking like I survived an earthquake—I made a silent vow to all the creatures who were impacted by my internal hell:
I survived. But let it be known:
I will never eat gas station eggs again.
Everpine & Petal 