I’m going to try to start blogging more regularly again. Not
that it is my New Year’s resolution or anything, because I don’t make goals, or
even have goals for that matter. I am just glad when I haven’t died throughout
the day or that I haven’t had to deal with too many used condoms at work.
Besides that, I am goalless, which isn’t much of a surprise.
It’s not that I am anti-goal, it’s just that I have learned
that when I do have a goal, the universe decides that it will do everything in
its power to smite my pathetic goal to the ground: Cooking a goose? Smoted.
Having health insurance? Smoted. Finding correctly fitting pants? Smoted, and
then laughed at for having highwaters (I know that smoted isn’t the proper
conjugation, but I prefer smoted to smote, get off my back).
So instead, I take a more passive role, and let the universe
decide where I will end up in life. Which at the moment, would be living alone
in a cockroach infested apartment, while I work as a permanent temp, without
cable or many friends, and I can be content with that, as long as the universe
decides to move me along sometime soon.
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On the topic of my apartment, the bathroom has begun weeping
nicotine from its walls. I used to think that I wasn’t using the ventilation long
enough, after my morning shower, but my mother told me that yellow seepage is a
sign that the past tenant was a smoker. To me, it just looks like my bathroom
has syphilis. I was rather fine with this until the bathroom wept nicotine into
my eyeball whilst sitting atop the toilet, which temporarily blinded me and
made it so difficult to finish my business. There was a lot of groaning, and
stomping, and I prayed that the next door neighbor wouldn’t come by to see if I
was ok.
Last time she came by, I was cursing the god of bread and
she wanted to make sure I was ok. I looked like an idiot for having a tantrum
over mold, and then I looked like a bigger idiot when I called her, “Pepper,”
because that is what I thought her husband called her. Now that I think of it,
many husbands call their wives, “sweet cheeks,” but that doesn’t give me the
right to address them as such.
-
I have gotten back into the swing of Zumba after being fired
from my gym and packing on twelve pounds. To my Asian coworkers, they are
amazed that twelve pounds doesn’t show too much on me, but if I was five foot,
like them, I am sure I would have to start breaking out my fat clothes again.
And while I did like teaching Zumba for three months, the gym I taught at was skuzzy,
and I say that in the nicest way possible. The gym owner was crude, looked like
he had taken too many steroids at multiple times in his life, and made fun of
my class on a regular basis. He wonders why more people didn’t show up. I wouldn’t show up either if a pervy, juice
head made fun of the class while watching from the door. And then I remember I
did show up. For three months. Three times a week.
Whatever, I’m not bitter. I hope that that gym flourishes. I
hope nothing but the best for the owner whose head is four sizes too small for
his body. I hope nothing but the best for the whore of a receptionist, who
thinks that undressing in the lobby will make patrons want to lose more weight.
I hope nothing but the best for their patrons, who still aren’t losing weight
thanks to the tutelage of the “nutritional specialist” who is a good forty
pounds overweight.
I’ve never really had a big craving for meat ever. This
could be because my mother was a vegetarian for years, and I am poor and don’t
buy meat because it is expensive. I take that back. I’m just cheap. I live off
of off brand granola bars, cereal, and sandwiches, which is living rich in
comparison to what I ate when I lived in Utah: canned refried beans, rice, and
more refried beans. But as of late, I have craved the taste of flesh, and
cannot stop thinking about it. This could be from my failed attempt to cook a
goose, where I looked for months and then found out that I would have to shell
out between ninety and one hundred and thirty dollars just for the bird. I am
depressed and desperate enough for a forty dollar bird, sure, but I don’t think
that I am anywhere near wallowing in a fatty depression, where I can spend that
much money without really caring about the consequences.
This has made it so that I have started buying the cheapest
meat I can buy, which is usually one hour from expiring, and the weirdest cut
of meat that one could imagine. The most recent of my cooking endeavors
happened after working out and I realized that if I did not have flesh of the
beast, I would crumple up and die. So going to the store, the cheapest thing I
could find was a package with two, “half breasts of chicken with rib and skin.”
Along with the skin, was a few feathers, but it was kosher, and I felt like
obeying the Law of Moses.
Because I don’t
really have a plethora of cooking tools, nor ingredients, I placed the meat
atop a roasting rack formed of eyeballed potatoes, slathered it in as much oil
and kosher salt as I could, and then threw on some cayenne pepper with an
unenthusiastic, “bam.” With the amount of salt I added, it was as if I was
about to pickle the chicken, which reminds me of pickled pig’s feet, which
reminds me of preserved parasites in formaldehyde. I threw the chicken in the oven and then
wedged myself into my sardine can tub.
Cooking has a weird effect on feathers. They stand straight
up and brown up a little bit so you really can’t ignore them. It actually
looked like the chicken decided to shave right before it was slaughtered, and
it had developed five o’ clock shadow by the time it made it out of the oven. I
looked at the feathers, and then considered my options. I could either pull off
the skin and not eat it, or I could stop caring and embrace the inner Native American
of my soul. Pass the peace pipe and call me Squanto.
