I Can't
I can't...
be trusted to be left alone and drunk on weekends, that much was made very clear to me this past weekend. It had been so long since I had gone out, gotten drunk, and the "OMGIMSOSTARVINGANDDRUNK" Emma came out to reek havoc on my body. In just two nights time, I put down Taco Bell and late-night sliders and, only MINUTES after the sliders, decided I was still starving and needed some pasta. WHAT? WHY. AM I A 16-YEAR-OLD TEENAGE BOY WHO RUNS TRACK? NO. I'M NOT. It's moments like those where I need Cece to have a voice box in order to say, "Hey, you drunk fuck. Go to bed. Put the Barilla down and go to bed."
I can't...
get over that I ate sliders from a food truck and followed it almost immediately with pasta at home. I'm honestly traumatized by my actions and am strongly considering putting a lock and chain around my pantry door when I go out on the town.
I can't...
understand those moods we get in sometimes where EVERYTHING is bothersome. You're not even PMSing and nothing is really even that wrong in your life, but you just want to punch the person next to you and throw your computer across the room for no good reason. What is that? Just life in general? The weather maybe?
I can't...
that we all blame things on the weather. In a weird mood? "It's the weather." Headache? "It's this weather." He cheated on you? "It's this weather, I'm telling you." Got fired? "IT'S THE FUCKING WEATHER."
I can't...
deal with "cheese plates" that are made solely out of pre-packaged Hormel platters. Don't throw sweaty, rubbery meats&cheeses onto a fancier plate and call it good. You're sickening, both of you.
I can't...
stand how quickly fresh produce goes bad. I'm a single girl, world. A single girl cooking for one (and usually eating for two as showcased at the beginning of this post). I can't be expected to use up all my lettuce, cucumber, peppers, carrots, etc. etc. etc. within a few day's time. That's just not fair! I'm waiting for the genius who creates the most efficient and incredible produce tupperware this world has ever known. The day my cucumbers stop sweating is the day I rejoice.
I can't...
handle my shower anymore. It's so depressing. The water pressure. The tiling. When oh when will I have the shower of my dreams? (find the answer for me by clicking the ads that pop-up on my blog page!) (meaning when you click, I get like $0.02 and am $0.02 closer to buying a home with the shower of my dreams).
I can't...
remember the last time I sweated profusely and, for that, I am grateful. Hey thanks, fall. For all you do and all that you are. Including, but not limited to, sweaters, scarves, fall-tasting things, and the obscene amount of booties that live in my closet.
I can't...
with how many baking recipes call for butter "at room temperature." Like, BITCH PLEASE. You really think I am thinking that far ahead in time to remember to take the butter out of the fridge so it's all nice and luke warmish by the time I'm ready to bake? No. 9 times out 10, my baking endeavors are last minute and unplanned. There's a freakin' defrost button on microwaves - what about a room temperature button? Or better yet, a "Ugh, I'm Baking Last Minute" button?
I can't...
stand the rain, against my window (JK, yes I can. I love it, actually).
I can't...
agree with the phrase "chicks before dicks." It should really be, "chicks before dicks unless it's a hot dick and it's been a while, then I'm most likely gonna go AWOL for a bit but you better still love me and understand I need this." Or, an even shorter version that I created here:
I can't...
drink any sort of hard liquor straight, but I wish I could. So often in shows and movies, I see characters effortlessly sipping on a glass of clean scotch or whiskey or vodka and it makes me sad that I don't have the cajones or ovaries to be as cool as them. I'd just dry heave and make contorted, terrifying facial expressions.
I can't...
believe I've been paying $24 for these when I could be paying $14.99 for their almost exact knock-off. Or should I say knockers-off. HA! Haha!
I can't...
wait to sloppily stuff my face for the next three months, eating my way through all major holidays and lose track of the amount of times I use "Whatevs! It's the holidays!" as an excuse for my irrational eating behavior... only to come out of hibernation in spring, look down, scream, and completely panic. It's a beautiful, vicious cycle that is unavoidable, no matter how hard you try to combat it. So own it. Own that pumpkin bread and mashed potatoes and three extra buttered rolls and midnight snacks of leftovers just because. You can write it all off as winter inactivity and anyone who judges you for it is just a stupid, skinny, hungry, angry bitch virgin who can't drive.
xox,
emma
