Jerry disgraced his identity and moved to New Jersey. Gross! But he does have a nice place there with the best cat I ever met ever and he lives near a rock climbing gym. Fun! So he took me out there for a day of "bouldering." It was super hard. I was sore for days. As an aside: ladies, if you want to pick up, hit up a rock climbing gym. There were a lot of cuties there. And there is virtually no competition because most of the girls who rock climb are lesbians, with the exception of me, of course. And once my hair grows out (and I sell that Subaru Outback) hopefully all the rumors will stop!
The pasta was perfectly al dente, the sauce really rich and creamy. We paired it with Jerry's homemade beer. The pasta came out perfectly, but while I was eating it something was wrong. I may be small but I proudly can consume large quantities of pasta and that day I just could not eat that pasta. My stomach was telling me no. But of course, I can fight the irrational whims of my body and I ended up woofing it.
Afterward, both Jerry and I started to feel funny. Things just weren't sitting right. I drove home, no traffic, and was talking on the phone when all of a sudden: HURL! I NEVER PUKE! (from food.) My body had spoken to me, "don't eat the duck egg pasta you moron!" but I did not listen. Weird. I am not sure what it was: the golf ball size raw duck egg yoke or maybe it was just the proper way to end a day with Jerry. It was the same sensation I felt last time we hung out and I saw him hook up electrodes to his testicles. Same feeling precisely.
Sadly, I think I am through with duck eggs. Turkey's, get ready!