A Story of Impotent Rage

Something I wrote to Ashley Awesome earlier, but have decided to share with the rest of the world:

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hey lady! I have a Story of Impotent Rage for you.

So, the guy from cornell in my flat of 5 people thinks he's julia fucking child and cooks these elaborate meals for dinner involving many spices and pots and pans going at once. He has a recipe/instructions written out, and follows it to the T, using every cutting implement in the process.


More background: I ran out of cash on friday and so haven't gone grocery shopping until yesterday. I am reeeaaaally looking forward to actually having some food that's not a selection from Corinne's Desperation Cookbook.

Now, I'm not one to begrudge another of thier culinary dreams, so for the first week or two, it's like, cool, he can cook. But the thing is, our kitchen has very limited space and resources, i.e. pots and pans and cutting implements.

So, even though his and my 'dinner times' coincided at first, his complex endeavors made it very difficult for me to boil a fucking pot of water to make pasta.

So, graciously, passively, silent like the courtesy ninja that I am, I have been trying to arrive home later and later in order to give him time to do his thing and clean up afterward before I get in the kitchen to make some food.

However.

He is either taking longer and longer or purposfully stymieing my plans for diffused kitchen-time. That Rat Bastard has been cooking fucking homemade meatballs for, like, 2 hours. I am HUNGRY. He is a DIRTY MOTHERFUCKER.

Now, for the kicker: You know my feelings about cooking in pans used for meat. I don't like doing it. I purchased new frying pans after an argument about damage incurred to the british girl's stuff, even though it was not my fault and almost certainly his, to smooth things over, and hey, I'll keep the pans when we leave.

HE IS COOKING HIS MEATBALLS OF ETERNITY IN MY FUCKING PANS.

FUCK. FUCKING SHITFUCK.

So, now, with nothing to do in my room because I have no entertainment, and no sign of when he will be done and cleaned up, I decided to stop vulturing around the kitchen, giving pointed stares to the back of his oblivious fucking head, come down to the computer lab, and express this grievious injury to you. I hope you enjoyed it!

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PS: Not to worry children, now that my blood sugar has evened out a bit, I am totally over this.