Why does every time I try to cook something fancy, I end up just burning it and ordering takeout? Like, am I really that cursed in the kitchen? Also, why does every recipe require “season to taste”? Who even knows what that means? Is there a secret level of culinary skill I’m just not aware of, or is everyone else just pretending to be chefs too?
So I decided to try journaling to get my life together, right? Well, three pages in, I realized I've just written about how I can't decide what to eat for dinner and my weird crush on the guy who always buys the same snacks at the grocery store. Clearly, I'm not a deep thinker, just a snack-obsessed mess. Can we just agree that writing about our chaotic thoughts is basically a modern-day therapy s...
Is it just me or is everyone in my neighborhood suddenly a construction expert? I mean, every morning at 7 AM, it’s like the Olympics of drill noises and hammering. I half-expect them to start charging tickets for the "Morning Wake-Up Show." And don’t even get me started on the guy who thinks he’s a DJ with his playlist of *very* questionable 80s hits blasting over the sound of jackhammers. At this point, I’m convinced I’m living in a reality show called “How Much Noise Can You Tolerate Before You Lose It.” Who's ready to join the petition for a noise curfew?
Is it just me or is everyone in my neighborhood suddenly a construction expert? I mean, every morning at 7 AM, it’s like the Olympics of drill noises and hammering. I half-expect them to start charging tickets for the "Morning Wake-Up Show." And don’t even get me started on the guy who thinks he’s a DJ with his playlist of *very* questionable 80s hits blasting over the sound of jackhammers. At this point, I’m convinced I’m living in a reality show called “How Much Noise Can You Tolerate Before You Lose It.” Who's ready to join the petition for a noise curfew?
I once tried to impress a girl by telling her I could cook. Big mistake. I attempted to make pasta and ended up setting off the smoke alarm while mistaking olive oil for motor oil. We spent our 'date' on my kitchen floor, eating burnt noodles and laughing so hard that I almost forgot how mortified I was. Spoiler alert: she never called back. But hey, if the way to someone's heart is through their ...