Bwog despairs over many things. The John Jay omelette line is often one of them. This is our mournful cry.

Some days when I walk in, all is well. The line is short, the grill unburdened and smoothly producing omelette after omelette in smooth succession. An abundance of shelled eggs spills forth from the ice tray in which they are housed. My soul is at rest, and I feel a great lightness in my heart.

But all too often, I despair when I see the John Jay omelette line, twisting around past the cups and drink machines, like the great serpent Jörmungandr encircling the Earth. The counter above the grill strains under a heavy load of plates filled to the brim with toppings, and the grill’s smooth metal surface can scarcely be seen beneath a great yellow plain of sizzling bird fetuses.

Sometimes, my despair does not turn me aside from seeking an omelette. I stand in the line, listening to music, to podcasts, to anything to compress my eternity of standing, to distract me from the fact that I’m standing on yellowed linoleum waiting for eggs. I think of Fantine’s sung plea, “I had a dream my life would be / So different from this hell I’m living,” wondering how I came to be where I find myself, as I watch others retrieve their steaming, delicious plates. I yearn for their fulfillment, my despair coming from the fact that I must wait.

Other days, though, I see the line, and it speaks to me, saying “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,” as it stretches out and around, lengthening with every passing moment. I am turned aside from the path of the egg, and must seek alternative, inferior sustenance from other stations. On these days, there is no light at the end of the tunnel of my despair. My long vigil does not end. The darkness is all-consuming, and I am left eggless and bereft.