A friendly neighbor, a late night rendezvous, and a Scotch egg

I would like to tell you a tale. A romance, if you will. Two households, both alike in dignity, in fair Chicago where we lay our scene.

And just like Romeo and Juliet, our tale begins on Facebook…

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For the uninitiated, a Scotch egg is a treat most decadent. It’s like a heart attack wrapped in a hard-boiled egg, wrapped in sausage and breading, and deep-fried in deliciousness.

Alas, Eliza, fair maker of said delicious delicacy, lives on the 3rd floor two buildings down. And I in my pajamas did thus set out to procure the item of my desires, with naught but a scarf with which to catch the plummeting beauty.

Like Romeo, I stood under yonder balcony, but in the very process of texting, “Wherefore art thou Scotch Egg?” I perceived yon intercom crackling to life and beaconing me inside. Thus, disappointed to not actually be catching my lovely amid her three story drop, I instead mounted to the sky to meet her in all of her tinfoil-and-plastic-bag wrapped glory.

Alas, as romances often do, this story was fated to end in tragedy. Both for the Scotch egg, which met with cruel fate:

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and for me, since I will now ultimately die of a heart disease-related illness.

For never a story of more woe did beg,
Than this of Shane and his Scotch egg.

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