i'm over food
i am so over food lately. it's like, fuck you, food. fuck you. you're so unoriginal and all you do is make me bloated and angry in the end. if i could tell food off, i'd make it so insecure and upset, it would want to eat itself in desperation. it would gain 10 pounds solely from eating itself, and then it would feel how i feel, which is sick of it. oh hey, pasta. what up? what - you think you're so special because you take 10 minutes to cook and can be mixed with just about anything? well, guess what? i can mircowave a lean cuisine pizza and feel more satisfied than when i slurp your nasty ass. oh, and you think it helps your case at all when you transform yourself into different shapes? what's with the bowtie? do you want me to wear you and attend an opera? you make me sick. no, literally, you do. i tried to be innovative with you and think up different ways we could have fun in the kitchen together, but i'm over it. fuck butter. fuck pesto. fuck sauce. all you do, pasta, is make me look pregnant and feel the extreme urge to lay down. i've never been so full, yet felt so empty.
and what the FUCK are you looking at, turkey sandwich? if you have something to say for yourself, speak up. oh wait, i forgot. YOU CAN'T. ya know why? because you're a turkey sandwich. but, i'll do you the favor of putting words in your meat. all you do is sit on bread. you're like a dirty slab of meat wedged between two hungry carbs who want to sandwich you and never call you again. and cheese doesn't really help, nor does mustard. in fact, the only addition that makes you worthwhile at all are the dirty things like bacon and avocado. but lord knows us "healthy" citizens who are trying to watch our lunch food intake by having you and only you on a stupid slab of bread aren't allowed to spice it up with those delicious additions. ya sure it's the tryptophan, mr. turkey? or maybe it's just YOU. maybe you're so incredibly boring on my taste buds, i can't HELP but fall asleep with you hanging halfway out of my mouth. you disgust me.
and don't eeeeeeven get me started on chicken. oh my no. doesn't matter if you're bought fresh or frozen, you will always refuse to taste like anything but a little bit of whatever marinade i soaked you in for 7 days and chicken. what is it gonna take with you, chicken? do i need to run your entire fucking body through magic marinade in order for you to ACTUALLY maintain any kind of flavor besides boredom with a hint of rosemary? oh, do you want me to rub you down with bread crumbs and flour and make ya all fried and nasty and shit? you'd like that, wouldn't you? WELL GUESS WHAT? i won't do it. i'm not going down that road. once i have you fried, i won't go back and then i'll be 50 pounds overweight and sobbing, "but i heard cooking at home is 10x healthier in any capacity than dining out. wh-wh-what a-a-am i do-do-doing wrooooooong?" fat blubber tears will pour down my face while i stuff your disgusting, mundane, rubbery body into my face. maybe i'm doing something wrong. maybe you had a horrible experience with DELICIOUS marinades as a child and can't bear to actually let them soak into your skin. release your inhibitions, chicken. feel the rain on your skin. no one else can do it for you and that's a fucking fact.
the only thing worth my time right now are these:
that's right. best fruit i've ever had. if you're in Dallas, buy some at central market. if you're elsewhere, figure it out.
eff food, y'all