I keep forgetting that I pay for this site and update it about once a year. Anyway, it’s the apocalypse and the world is absolute shit. As we all continue to descend into the toilet bowl of personal misery, sometimes genius can strike.
And with that in consideration, I’d like to have everyone honor and acknowledge me as one of the most premiere intellects of our time. Because why haven’t we been doing this since the invention of pizza:
Why haven’t we been dipping our pizza into tomato soup always? I get that people will dip crusts in marinara sauce but that feels limiting and embarrassing when getting into the tomato soup game. Besides, I hate a chunk of tomato.
So, it’s the days of shelter, and time and meals are meaningless so likely I’m putting a lot of stock in this creation but I have nothing else going on except rewatching The Hills obsessively. Does anyone want to talk about this show now that I’ve started watching it decades after it’s first episode? Like…maybe if Lauren keeps losing all her friends, the problem might be LC? Someone discuss this with me.
So, long story short. Dipping your pizza into tomato soup is awesome and I would really like to talk to someone, anyone, about The Hills.
The thing I like the best about You Life is how aggressively I can neglect it, and yet whenever I need You Life it’s always right there waiting for me. Like a Richard Marx song. I don’t know what this says about me, but I think it’s bad: both the deep appreciation of how much I adore the opportunity to neglect that which I love, and my knowledge of Richard Marx songs. (I could sing all the hits).
Along with my love of soft rock, which is no secret, it’s also no secret that I eat like a candy beast human landfill teeming with cookies and cream hazelnut spread (by Jif) .
I’m real gross. A few weeks ago, I texted my best friend letting him know that I had to pause over whether or not I was going to eat a chocolate glazed doughnut off of brick retaining wall near a car dealership. And this is not the first time I’ve had to ask for guidance about finding sweets on the ground
Considering my garbage status of trash human, it didn’t totally surprise me that someone (WHO HAS YET TO COME FORWARD AND WILL NOT OWN THIS) signed me up for Diabetes Self-Management. At first I thought this was weirdly accurate SPAM. But after further investigation this appears to be some sort of email blast that you have to sign up for which provides healthy eating tips and recipes. Either in an act of self-care I signed up for this while black out drunk (not impossible), or someone signed this up for me out of concern (less likely), or someone signed me up for this as a hilarious response to my terrible eating habits (most likely).
Along with my love of food that is mostly comprised of a triumph of food chemistry and the sugar industry, I am fucking WILD about salt. Ohhhhhhhhh motherfucker. I keep salt with me everywhere. I carry salt packets in my purse, and whenever I check anything that has a pocket there will be salt packets in there too, and I keep an individual canister of Morton’s salt at my desk at work.
As a result, I am unsurprised that along with a specter signing me up for diabetes care newsletters that salt has taken a more aggressive stance in my life and has started to email me directly. From now on, I look forward to continuing this correspondence with Salt.
Welcome Salt, join my inbox with the emails about my impending diabetes and how to manage it and my desk with a canister of you at the ready. It’s nice to take our relationship to the next level. And I look forward to being able to adore you and neglect you – just like I do to You Life and soft rock. My whole heart, mi amore.
My mom put out a fruit bowl (basket? It’s square-ish, so presumably it’s not a bowl. What is this? Who is an adult that uses shit like this? Who do I know that has decorative kitchen…appliances (?) things?).
And I can’t be sure if this is arranged the way it is because my mother is 1. hilarious 2. a space case that doesn’t pay attention to what she’s doing or 3. conducting a deeply disturbing social experiment on her dinner guests.
one of these things is not like the other
She actually prompted people to grab some fruit or nuts before dinner if they were hungry.
Hey, seriously, what is the fruit and nuts receptacle called?
I used to work for a legitimate crazy person at her home office, which is a horse of different color. But one day these two super-hot dudes came to her door and said they were selling books. So instantly suckered into their little web of deceit, my boss and I bought like $45 worth of books. Fun side note, the grimier one of the dudes gave me his number in case I needed my, “lawn trimmed” (his words, not mine).
After six months, it became apparent that two jerk-offs ripped off an old (crazy) lady and a young girl. No books appeared. However, I did start receiving a subscription to Gourmet Magazine that I never requested or paid for.
Because sometimes the universe rewards you by being ripped off by someone who you thought was flirting with you with a magazine that you’ve never been interested in, used, or really read. And then it further rewards you by sending you William Sonoma catalogues for two years following, assumedly because of it. Thanks, universe!
And something similar happened to my best friend Shawn recently:
Considering that my diet consists almost exclusively of colors and numbers magically scienced into being, I find it shocking that I was ignorant of the greatest candy development of the last generation.
I had a feeling that there was a deep void in my life that needed filling (hot), and it must have been an extensional longing for this – the most glorious, and meta, of sugary creations. Finally a wise and benevolent candy angel took the time to think upon what was missing from candy. And this is what he came up with:
How could I have been so unaware of this? I was under this blind impression that candy WAS a dessert, and, fuck me, was I wrong. There is nothing more delightful and repugnant as a Skittle that somehow (through Skittle magic science) also tastes like a blueberry tart.
Thank you, Skittles. You are a kindly company looking out for the nutritionally negligent and creating great feats of candy-dessert achievements. Holy holy holy!
Since funemployment, I recently moved out of the delightful shitbox that I formerly called, “home.” It was a hard readjustment and a tearful farewell to all of the things I had gotten so used to: no heat, questionable fire safety, a garbage fridge. But, I have new things to look forward to now. One of these things I was affectionately referring to as “homeless’ing,” where I would delight in staying on friends’ couches.
Since I am the luckiest of ladies, two of my friends granted me a headquarters where I might unpack my cat knickknacks on a less transient basis.
But just like bad credit and scabies follows a person, I have a very special spectral visitor.
No. It can’t be. There is no possible way that this can what I think it is. Because what I think it is a misplaced crock pot filled with poisonous old food. I remember something like this; something dark, and evil, and filled with some sort of chili…
My trash-fridge is my own personal version of a Stephen King novel. Because upon closer inspection it seems like trash-fridge chili is following me. Haunting me…
Oh come on
I might have created a sentient being in trash-fridge. And I feel like I’m not paranoid in saying that the ghost of it is trying to murder me. IT’S THE CHILI OF THE UNDEAD!
It shouldn’t be surprising, but it seems that with unemployment I have become considerably lazier than recent memory recalls. With getting laid off I’ve noticed that it has opened up a world of possibilities, such as more time to shower but also less impetus to get out of bed.
Also, re-making Dre’s 2001: The Chronic to make it cat friendly for my kits:
hey-eh-eh-ay catnip everyday
But I’ve been neglecting more than just my personal hygiene and commitment to sanity. I’ve neglected skillet
It seems as though when I was making skillet work double duty as a pasta-maker, I didn’t consider that the noxious combination of pasta water and the bottom of the balsa wood VHS organizer would create something considerably unholy.
this is the tool I use to steam pasta in a cast iron skillet
This is what the bottom looked like after I steamed the pasta:
that ring was not an original feature of the organizer
And this what happened after letting the fumes, and poison, and remnants of pasta that I couldn’t fish out percolate for about a week (read: a month):
Sweet mother of God
It gets worse:
It’s my very own version of the Origin of Species. But, ya know, in my kitchen
When the mold started I did what any person would do.
I put the VHS organizer back on top of the skillet so as not to deal with it.
Until today. Now the little community of, what can only be evil and villainous, mold can live free in the skillet for all of eternity.
In my trash.
But I played Taps while heaving it into the dumpster.
Have you ever opened a tin of leftovers only to find the tables’ worth of cutlery inside because the previous week during a “cleaning spree” you had thrown away all of your previously owned knives and forks (let’s be fair I only owned one of both, but still it was trying to eat pasta without them)?
Tofu burrito, fries, and cutlery. Huzzah!
Thank you, Mad Mex, I don’t have to eat pasta with my hands this week.
From my very limited understanding of history, the last days of Rome were a rough place to be: hedonism, theft, moral malaise. And while I gathered these opinions about the civilization’s decline following a less than five minute Google search, I can confidently say that my declining juncture at my job is probably similar.
Or maybe not. But I am stealing everything that isn’t nailed to the ground. The most eccentric theft to date pertains to my aggressive love of hot sauce.
Some nice person left out a communal hot sauce for the lunch room, and while I appreciate the spirit of generosity I more greatly appreciate free condiments. However, I couldn’t just take the bottle of hot sauce in broad (albeit florescent) daylight. So, I did what every crazy person would do.
I dumped half the bottle of hot sauce into the remains of a Herr’s pretzel bag
And my lunch then consisted of:
it consisted of pretzels, a bag of stolen hot sauce in an old pretzel bag, and – what the hell – I stole a packet of cream cheese for the fun of it