The Space Between the Fork is Meant For Kindness 

Buona Sera G,

A lot of times I find myself being the wide receiver of kindness. Good things happen. Sometimes infants smile at me, sometimes people give me stuff, and other times it is a really small act that gives me bountiful amounts of joy. The other day I was eating at a plain dining hall. It was my daily monotonous routine during the morning before class on a Thursday. One of the long days of class where I would have to wait around five hours of class to eat if I missed breakfast. I was tired that day and sat down near the trash cans so that I didn’t have to move around too much. I had my signature sparkling water with a hint of pink lemonade and a tower of eggs that rivaled the Empire State Building. There was no sign of salt, pepper, or sauce—bulking season struggles. While I was digging in, I seemed to drop my fork on the ground. I thought to myself, “Eh, I don’t really mind using my hands. I washed my hands like usual today.” I continued digging in. As more yellow mushy pearls of yolk entered my mouth, I noticed a little nudge to my left. A random guy got me a new fork and left without a word. 

Plain eggs usually make the strongest-willed bodybuilders shudder in disgust and fear. To me, they tasted pretty great that day.