Food, eating and all that shit.

I have established earlier that I am incapable of looking after myself, feeding my stupid face noodles, pasta and other such simple, un-nourishing nonsense. I like it that way. That way is fun, tasty, sexy and easy. I don’t have to try to pretend to look after myself. But did I mention I have a girlfriend? She’s here now. She comes down south fairly often, and every time she does, my incredible plans go right out of the window.

For you see, this insane girl feels she has to feed me what would be classified as “real” food. She gets what I have read are called “ingredients”, mixes them “together” and makes “food” for “me” to eat. It’s not cool – it’s insane. Tonight I’m having roast chicken with bean stew. What’s going on?

I’m comfortable in what I eat. Noodles: they may have all the nutritional value of a pregnant pause, but they are salty and delicious. Pasta? I can make a vat of it to last a week and it costs me a couple of quid. There’s none of this ‘salt’ or ‘spices’ or other such nonsense. It’s simple, just like my brain, and it makes it easier for me to carry on living.

Having said that, this does smell amazing and I do really prefer this actual food to the nonsense I shove down my own gullet. Well done, woman.

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