Behold the wonder of my exotic fruit. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen with your meager apple in your pedestrian sack lunch. Look at this fruit. Seriously look at this fruit. There is something about this fruit that is making you uncomfortable, but you can’t put your finger on it. But you can’t look away. Stop looking. Seriously. MOVE IT, THIS IS NOT A SPECTATOR FRUIT. DROP A COMMENT ABOUT HOW EXOTIC I AM AND MOVE ON.
Raw fish. I eat raw fish. I eat raw fish. I totally eat raw fish. Isn’t this crazy? It’s raw! We’re like cavemen! Japanese cavemen with fancy sticks!
I’m banking on my ability to carve food into words as my defining skill as a future-mother. FUTURE MOTHER. No kids right now. Just working on my food carving. I COULD be a good mother though. Seriously. What’s up, dude? You busy later? You wanna carve a watermelon in the traditional sense? I’m fun people.
Guys, check out my knife skills. Like, seriously, I can CUT A PEPPER. My knife is sharp, like my EYE FOR MINIATURE FOOD INSIDE OF OTHER FOOD NO DUH. I didn’t want you to see the final product, the disgusting half-baked nonsense I spewed out of the pan and onto a plate and down my gullet after this beautiful slice, so I just took this pic and sent it out to my nerds because I want to be in the chef’s club. I see art in foodstuff.
It would be really awesome if at least one of you could validate that this is, in fact, an edible plate. Just one. Somebody throw in something as simple as a “looks great, Ted!” or even a “Yum” and I’ll feel much better about eating this plate of somewhat colorful garbage.
Stare into the crevices of this flaky heritage food and see the texture of my ruh. Layers of sweet, chewy personality in every bite of my Instagram. Your comment will be the syrup on my baklava soul.
Gather, my children. Look at the crumbly product of my labours! Feast on my creation, the glorious sweet bread, the anonymous filling! I made these cylindrical vessels of caloric pleasure, for you to paint your faces with delight. Go on, paint! Consume and paint, ye vassels!
Yo it’s Thursday and like no big deal or whatever but it’s guy’s night you know son? I’m trying to do my thing and just chew some cowmeat in a bun and be a man’s man and that’s that. I work real mad hard and I deserve a greasy meat patty and fries, nawimsayin? It’s Thursday and if you think I’m gonna eat some caesar salad and cry tears of weakness you must be my dumb little brother. Yo we were watching The Departed this one time and this kid is like, I don’t get why everyone is so mad at each other? Shut up bro, I’m hungry.
Don’t worry, I’m not one of those vegetarians… those social outcasts who email their mom every time they see a picture of some baby goat. Ha! I couldn’t possibly survive without consuming the charred flesh of a dead animal. Salad is for children.
I make my own lean cuisines out of anything that’s on sale at NANA’S ORGANIC FOOD BAZAAR. My heart pumps blood twice as hard as yours. I don’t ever sweat.
Check out this nonsense I’m about to shovel into my body. I want you to know I have absolutely no respect for my small intestine. I’ll eat anything. Pass me that pile of sour cream and hot sauce, because I woke up feeling a bit too healthy today.