The Great Toast Crisis
First, let's fully dismiss the notion of what came first, the chicken or the egg. My current state of early morning hysteria deals with the aftermath of the two aforementioned commodities. In plain talk, I have evolved past the addictive jolt of caffeine and am now fully dedicated to fried eggs, sunny side up, and toast.
This is, of course, a baptism of fire and brimstone, or at least radiant heat and a fine piece of bread. Not one but two is where the rubber has hit the road. And yet my journey falls out midflight when the toast disappears at a rate not equal to that of the running yellow eggs. Call Stephen Hawking: The math has gone haywire.
Desperate situations call for either divine inspiration or absolute violence. Yes, Jesus did multiply loaves but what was his stance on toast? And where are those pesky little disciples when you need them to make a 7-11 run? There, of course, is the more abject course of throwing the plate onto the floor, turning red like a Manchester United fan and stomping out. But what would that achieve?
Who has dictated that eggs must come with only two pieces of toast? Why not one or what about three? Indeed what government body or unilateral, multinational NGO governs over the global standards of breakfast? These ovoidal observations are not going to get me anywhere, so I am put into a position of abandoning the eggs just like those Titanic sailors who missed the lifeboats and started to sink. This will undoubtedly get just as ugly in no time at all.
Real estate in many ways is like breakfast, or, shall we say, eggs and toast. Some divine body in a backroom decides what designs our condo must come in – be it modern, classical, art and design oriented or just a plain white box with four walls reminiscent of the insane asylum. (I' m not clear if those still exist but certainly the current trend of shoebox-sized flats in Asia's urban centers can provide a suitable alternative.) Can you fit a toaster in 20 sqm? Apparently not.
Even worse than institutional insipidness is when enlightened property developers come up with all sorts of elaborate alternatives in their endeavors to "think outside of the box". Getting out of the box can be dangerous, as all manner of stupidity exists in the world of hype-nosis.
Some bigger con do projects offer themed units such as Hello Kitty, or units splashed with colours that shouldn't exist outside of the bakery aisle, like vanilla, almond or mint.
More attempts at forward-thinking gets an eco-green-theme, landing us squarely in the ubiquitous world of 'lemon grass'.
My only true friend – the bartender at a dimly lit drinking establishment – has said that the only place mint belongs is in a mojito. I'd add that the only person drinking the mojito better be wearing a skirt, but since I live in Thailand the entire skirt thing just flies out the window. That is of course assuming you even have a window in your absolutely fabulous long-tail selection of endless property options.
This is premised on the fact that no one who buys into one of these schemes – breakfast or property – actually wants, needs or desires a third piece of toast.