I am TERRIFIED of Drive-Thrus. Having a time limit thrust upon me by the living dead speakerbox makes me panic like a whore at mass. If there are more than two people in the car with me, and I am driving, I absolutely refuse to go through the Drive-Thru. This goes for toll booths, also. I mean, I go through them, but not without having an anxiety attack. I just got back from the airport where I was picking my roommate up from the Seattle NerdCon, and I was excited because even though I did, in fact, go into the parking garage, I knew that at RDU, if you stay in the deck for less than an hour, you do not have to pay. So when I rolled up to the pay booth, I happily handed over my (free) ticket. When the cashier said, “One dollar, please,” I started sweating. I did not have my money ready. I panicked. Then I turned to her and apologized profusely WHILE HYPERVENTILATING, saying I thought it would be free, and that’s when a huge glob of snot exited my nose and rested itself peacefully on my upper lip. She was horrified. And then, as if to make amends, I verbally drew attention to the fact that I had just snotted myself. She did not laugh. Three hours later, while staring at my oven door with abject hatred in my eyes, I’m still cringing about this.
About my oven. Yeah. It only has two settings. On. And off. It’s broken. It broils. Or it doesn’t. So. Instead of picking up the telephone and placing a call to the landlord, I spent twenty minutes cutting a set of eyes and a frowny mouth out of construction paper. I taped it to the oven and now it’s a sad oven. That was two and a half months ago. So as you can see, I’m good with appliance upkeep.
How To Cook A Chicken Pot Pie in Mandey’s Sad Oven
a. Remove Chicken Pot Pie from cardboard box.
b. Poke little holes in top of said Pot Pie with fork, you know, to let it breathe.
c. Place Pot Pie in Sad Oven on “On” for 17-20 minutes.
d. Remove Pot Pie from Sad Oven (Careful! It’s hot!) and let cool for five minutes.
e. Place Pot Pie directly in trash can since the top is burned black and the middle is still frozen as fuck.
Step d is very important. If the Pot Pie is not properly cooled, it will burn a hole in your trash bag.
Straight Roommate and Gay Roommate attempted to cook a pizza in the Sad Oven once, and it melted the bottom of the pizza within five minutes so that the pizza actually fell through the Sad Oven rack and reformed as. . .a pizza. . .cut into long, burned strips on the bottom of the Sad Oven.
Did I describe that correctly? Can you visualize this? Pizza Strips? Burned? On the bottom of the Sad Oven?
So I had to drive somewhere to get dinner because I was the only one with a car. I’m a fantastic driver. Just the other day, I almost rear-ended a mail truck, came very close to sideswiping a delivery van, ran a red light, and just about killed four camera-and-culottes-clad pedestrians. This all happened while I was traveling the two-block stretch between Mallette Street and Church Street. When I got back home with a real pizza that Domino’s had cooked for us, the house was dark and my roommates were on the lawn.
I moved into my house in July of 2006. I paid my first electric bill for this house in February of 2007. I wouldn’t really call myself a procrastinator. I’d say I just. . .don’t. . .care, really. Until someone can explain electricity to me in a way that I can comprehend its definition and subsequently apply my personal idea of monetary worth to it, I’m not interested in paying for it.
Guess I’ll just go to sleep instead.