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In the midst of brainlessly sauntering through the aisles of Rite Aid – an activity I utilize as a sort of buffer zone before confronting the fact that I have no idea what I’m doing – I cruised past the fridge and stopped dead in my tracks at THIS shit. Immediately upon spotting this jarring sight my brain racked itself in a desperate attempt to recall if I have ever seen this before. And honestly I don’t think I have. As simple and straightforward as the situation inside this fridge was, it managed to sufficiently fuck up the next minute, minute and a half for me.


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I tried to roast my first chicken and I’m not gonna lie it sucked. Aside from the visual amusement of the asparagus-stuffed asshole, the crispiness and the flavor just weren’t there. I bought the chicken from some old lady in the Union Square market who took about 15 minutes to tell me this chicken’s entire childhood story and then I carried it in onto the R train, double bagged, and felt myself unsettled at the physical sensation or the tactile response that resulted when the bag made contact with the seat next to me as I placed it down. Weird feeling, The veggies were alright.


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I was alone at my parents’ house and a lot of times when I don’t know what to do I make hot dogs. This was my first time making them on the grill pan and the results were quite pleasing as I was able to accomplish much more definitive grill marks thereby elevating the aesthetic appeal of these dogs. And then I pulled them and then what do I realize: NO FUCKING BUNS BRO. This trumps no milk-post cereal pour by 1,000,000. If I was even the slightest bit more morally depraved I would have thrown them in the garbage. But no. Like a conscious citizen of the world I stood there at the counter and ate them with a fork and knife like a fucking invalid.

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My girlfriend and I marinated the shit out of these skirt steaks but something went wrong and when they came off the grill the consistency of the marinade was mad CHALKY. Grainy, I guess. There was a lot of pineapple in there. If there are any citrus doctors reading this can you attest to the suspicion that the pineapple had something to do with the breaking down of some enzymes or something resulting in my grainy-ass marinade?



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Post-dessert massacre at The Smith. I gotta say I really love The Smith, man. Even though it’s kind of douchey I don’t think I’ve ever gotten anything bad from there. Except this giant bathtub of potato chips which had received a bukakke-esque treatment of bleu cheese. They have great deviled eggs.


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Get. A load. Of this shit. Unfortunately I don’t remember where this was but I am always eager for the opportunity to eat meat out of a metal bowl. The pile of corn it’s laying on only intensifies the excitement. The other thing, while beautiful, is a pretty good representation of a thing I would never order in a million years. Beets and lentils and tahini make me think of someone playing acoustic guitar next to a bonfire and I try to steer away from that shit at any cost.

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What if a situation unfolded – some kind of confrontation in which I had to defend my girlfriend or a family member – and the purpotrator from whom I was protecting them saw me eating this fucking chocolate covered waffle stick with rainbow sprinkles? This is the worst look ever for someone that is about to get into some shit. Rainbow sprinkles in my teeth. Melty, chocolate dick in my hand. Bad start.





Here is a mediocre, somewhat deceiving photo of – hands down – the richest and most unabashedly decadent dish I have ever consumed. It was some kind of duck, and each mouthful was more hardcore than the last. It was like eating a velvet bedspread. The sauce tasted like it was made from oxen blood and cuban cigars. It was like funneling motor oil from a truck carrying medieval weapons. I had to smoke a cigarette after every bite.




I tried pretty hard to convince myself that I was enjoying this bowl of raw vegetables. And maybe under different circumstances I would have – like if I was living in the forest or found them hidden under my bunk in a prison cell.

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This bowl of radishes and ramekin of seasoned butter was plopped down in front of me at a restaurant in Paris, forcing me to immediately grab my phone and angle it in such a way that I immediately became the biggest fucking herb in the restaurant. This marked the first time I was ever handed a bowl of radishes and truthfully I didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do with them. The butter was way too hard to dip.

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