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Hold a Funeral to Your Egg

When was the last time you went to a funeral? It was last week for me here in France, the funeral we held for—our egg.

Hold a Funeral to Your Egg

Let me introduce you a bit our beloved egg who just (visibly) passed away--Mr. Egg is one of the Egg Family in our homey flat. Guests who visit our kitchen are invited to resurrect the eggshells. Mr. Egg was one of them given birth by the lovely male mom Mr. Z, our French classmate.

Accidentally crashed by the 2-year-old innocent murderer, Tiago, the little guest of Sophie, our Portuguese flatmate, Mr. Egg underwent the operation and recovered. Later smashed by Fabio, Sophie's hot boyfriend, thrice by our classmate Christophe, it was far beyond our home medication capacity to revive Mr. Egg. We lost him.

"Let's hold the funeral!" I said to my three sexy flatmates. All nodded. (They must be from Pluto too!)

It was a shortest and least saddest funeral on earth in a calm cold dark evening in our neighbouring beautiful park. Mr. Egg (in pieces) was laid down in the huge flowerpot in front of the fountain.

"He won't be cold here," Leora, the Srilankan-Swiss flatmate, laughed covering Mr. Egg's corpse with her dead flower plant.

Short speeches were given—

"He was a very good egg," said Marianne, the Parisian flatmate.

"Thank you for devoting your life to our dish." I added.

"He was very friendly." Sweet Sophie smiled.

For Sophie, I discovered later that it was the first time in her lifetime she went to a funeral! Sophie chose not to go even if it was her grandma's. "I don't like the atmosphere. It's too sad, depressed, grieving." She said.

No one cried at Mr. Egg's funeral. Mr. Egg, though physically invisible, is still well alive in our hearts. As the Plutonian believe, 'Death' kills life; it never kills love.

Well should we also hold a funeral to our pass-away shoes, chair, mobile phone, car? Each can have it his/her own way.

What's important is actually-- Isn't it nice to also recognize the values of small tiny little things all around?!

People said things don't speak. Perhaps they do: just no one mind to listen.

Now tell me you hear any whisper of this small papers in your big hands! (Perhaps it's-- "Ouuchh! Gently touch! It hurt!")

Doing one crazy little thing a day keeps the doctor away

By Wora de la Folle

Do U 'Pluto'?

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