Let’s Talk About Snacks, Baby.

Is it wrong that I want to write about delicious, flavorful noms?

I said SNACKS, not sex. However, it's very hard to find a picture of Salt n Pepa eating Twinkies.

No.  No, it is not wrong at all.

Honestly, there really are only two kinds of people in this world:  Salty or Sweet.  If you know me, you know that I’m definitely Salty (in word and deed, motherfuckers.)  I do not deny that cheesecake and cookies (good, homemade ones) have the power to sweep me off my otherwise chip-happy feet, but if you set an open bag of pretty much any kind of chip before me, chances are I will not be able to resist.  Nay, I will rip into it with the ferocity of 1000 direwolves.  Sorry about your chip-vessel of choice.  It is now on the floor.  In smithereens.  Blam.

I have long studied my chip addiction, and studied my friends’ similar addictions as well – most of us would indeed eat Wavy Lays or Italian Cream Cake for breakfast, which leads me to ponder the question of whether we are somehow programmed incorrectly or what leads us to our actual malfunction.  I realize we are the products of an incredibly shit-tastic environment, where poisons are designed to be attractive, where the salads are laced with sugar  and the water can only be life-giving if it’s injected with fruity flavoring (with which I totally agree.) I know what is healthy and what is not.  Yet, I want a bag of taco Doritos.  Now.  In fact, it’s all I can think about.  IT IS 9:57 AM.  There is nothing wrong with that either.

You know what else is good?  Fucking brownies.  Brownies are good.  Sometimes I like to act healthy though, so I casually and effortlessly peel a banana and top each bite with crunchy peanut butter.  Nothing like the one-two punch of POTASSIUM AND PROTEIN, right?  I’m such a badass.

If I had to make a Snack Priority Scale, it would look like this:


We all love and crave different shit, but you gotta admit – a kettle-cooked potato chip is very hard to turn down.  I would make homemade potato chips if I had time, energy, and the key ingredient, which is apparently a kettle.  Those of you who are busy making your own snacks, good for you.  I will eat my processed shit right from the bag any day of the week.  I do admire you, however.  As a good friend of mine announced to me the other night via text regarding her triumphant yet hard-fought battle with making rice pudding,


And nothing says delicious like dick-flavored pudding.

Pegleg: Slower Than You!

As I hobble to my makeshift workstation at the kitchen table with a pan of Stove Top in one hand and a shredded facial tissue in the other, I ask myself:

Self, am I depressed?

I mean, a broken fibula can mean many things to many people, as I have learned on mybrokenleg.com, but the bullshit that you go through on the day-to-day while cooped up in your house can feel slightly oppressive at times.  When the only audience you have for your outbursts are a overly-hyper dog and a lazy motherfucker of a cat, the feedback one gets is somewhat lacking.  Between the blank stares of the cat and the constant gnawing of the dog on his magical rawhide bone, far too busy to look up, I’m not sure they even know I’m here.

Oh, I’m working.  This working-from-home thing is a blessing and a curse.  Besides that, who only takes off one day for a broken leg?  Me, that’s who.  Who is also severely lacking in judgement?  OK, don’t answer that.  I’ve been stuck in an uncomfortable stabilizing boot for 3 long weeks and if I’m lucky, I’ll get out of it next week.

Week 1:  I was totally putting on makeup and dressing in real-ish clothes every day.


Week 2:  Attempting and failing at looking normal, I instead just stayed angry at my laptop.

Learn to write an email, assholes.

 Week 3:  Complete Decline of all Civilization.

Who the fuck cares anymore. Not me. I look awesome.

And I guess that’s what really makes being broken, in its own way, a little beautiful and somewhat bittersweet.  I may be eating a pan of Stove Top for lunch, but trust me, you’re sleeping better than I am.  Plus 1 for Stove Top, minus 1 for no sleep.  I may not be able to outrun you for your candy, you don’t have Norco.  Minus 1 for being slower than a 90-year old, plus 1 for drugs.  I may be a completely miserable bitch 99.9% of the time at present, but I get to be that way in a robe at 2pm while drinking IF I WANTED TO.  Minus 1 for miserable bi-…

wait, there’s no minus there.