That could be made into a sad song, Simon supposed. 'If they are eggs, why are they gray? Who can say, who can say?'
Admittedly, "Why Are the Eggs So Gray?" might not be a big hit, even on the hipster circuit.

He'd probably been born with abs. Some were born with abs, some achieved abs, and some - like Simon - had abs thrust upon them by cruel instructors.

People could bear so much, but Simon did not know how much of the original you was left when the world had twisted you into a whole different shape.

When He'd told his mother he wanted to go to military school so he could though up, she'd given him a strange look. (Not as strange as if he'd said he wanted to go to demon-fighting school so he could drink from the Mortal Cup, Ascend to the ranks of Shadowhunter, and just maybe get back the memories that had been stolen from him in a nearby hell dimension, but close.)

He had wanted to go to the Academy and become a Shadowhunter, to learn more about his own life and remember everything he had lost, to become someone stronger and better.
Except that you did not become someone stronger and better by only thinking about yourself.

You know, this porridge isn't at all bad," Simon said, digging in. George nodded enthusiastically, his mouth full.
Beatriz looked sad for them, and possibly sad that boys were so stupid in general. "This isn't porridge," she told them. "These are scrambled eggs."
"Oh, no," George whispered faintly, his mouth still full, his voice terribly sad. "Oh no.