More Bitches Blogging About Sandwiches

Fuck Yea Eating

Let’s not get it twisted. You will not find anything intellectually enlightening or thought provoking … or humbling, for that matter, on this blog. We all know why we’re here. Because, even though I’m actually blissfully happy with the unexpected plot twist of my life at the business end of 2013, I still bitch and complain about superfluous things because it makes me feel alive. And then I use food as an antidepressant. And, equally surprisingly, a lot of my Facebook cult-following plus lost and impressionable WordPress souls really respond to my personal Satanism. I’m both incredibly embarrassed and honored by your support. Danke!

So. Food, if you haven’t noticed from my previous posts, I’m a big fan of. Particularly of sandwiches. But am I cook? Absolutely not. To this day, I have zero confidence with an oven because I am paranoid about potential Final Destination scenarios. That’s why I’m in my kitchen as we speak heating up some Trader Joe’s Hearty Minestrone sopa for dinner, because an electric stove is idiot-proof. For the most part, if I want a home-cooked meal, I’ll eat out.

Quick aside: This morning, I spent 50 minutes of my life doing kegels. Apparently, it’s the foundation of my new abs/core/ass class at a [über-holistic] studio I’m trying out in Prospect Heights off Groupon. After working up no sweat but spending intimate time performing awkward exhalations with some 10 other fully-grown women, I thought, “Fuck this, Imma go eat.”

Another 45 minutes across town to meet my friend Dan for brunch at a Caribbean-inspired eatery. His theory is that we were treated so poorly in terms of customer service because he looks like a Nazi Youth lumberjack and I’m Asian, looking like a bat outta hell in my spandex capris and yoga top and—apparently—my unforgivable rat’s-nest weave. Maybe they weren’t serving us because I lowered the median level of attractiveness in this hipsters’ paradise? Too real? At first, I thought, “Surely not,” but then we went to a diner for milkshakes after, and that Lucifer-incarnate snapped a too-real-for-TV candid of me that gave some validity to the grounds of me not being aesthetically pleasing enough for brunch (“I gave you a chance to do a cute Frances pose, but you refused.” No, Dan. That’s just my face, you asshole) and proceeded to publish it on Facebook. So, let it be known from this day onward that Sundays are my hoodrat days and you should not look to me for artistic inspiration without allowing 3 hours’ makeup prep time.

 

Now, Drew Barrymore, I concede, is twentyfold my superior in almost every way: she’s an accomplished actress, producer, spokesmodel, businesswoman, generational icon … the list goes on. And I find incredible comfort in the fact that she herself has admitted to being a culinary retard (just like moi!), but in her recent foray into journalism as the new editor-at-large for Refinery29, she betrayed an area of weakness for which I can sneakily assert my one-upmanship. Not only did she waste her debut post on the commonplace introductory subject of sandwiches (da fuq?), she also added insult to injury by spotlighting a ‘signature’ breakfast sandwich that—shit you not—a monkey could make. What ever happened to responsible journalism?

I’m currently working three jobs right now—all of which I kinda do half-assed but I’m getting there—and I have very little time for anything else. In fact, the past two days, I’ve even forgotten to eat. That’s a huge first for me (I might go broke, but I would NEVER go hungry). So when I spend my Sunday morning trolling the internet for divine inspiration to write these five articles due tomorrow morning, I honestly don’t have the time, emotional energy, or fuse for yet another post in the infinite blogosphere about sandwiches. From now on, if it doesn’t outrightly say “Food Porn”, I’m not gonna enquire further. I will waste my time on nothing less.

Sorry this post was so pointless. Remember why you’re here.

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