Let's Extrapolate Wildly: The Fact that I just Googled "Food to Cook During the Game"

Today, I sat at a desk in harsh lighting, not hungover at all, having gone spinning and eaten fresh produce, and googled “food to cook during the game”.

I don’t say this for attention. I say most things for attention. This also is not a lie. I only lie if I think the lie is more likely to make Nicole Richie like me more. I think we all know that is not the case here.

Note the use of “during”. I don’t want to cook something for the game (or whatever). I’d like to cook while “the game” is happening. There’s a disturbing lack of knowledge and detail in the query. Knowing me, I’d like to just go ahead and assume “the game”, (is that the word I used?), is a 4 episode binge of MTV’s Scream. But, alas, the evidence just isn’t clear enough. I guess we’ll just leave it at “the game” (word’s lost all meaning).

Obviously, I’m a tragic drunk bitch (TDB) looking to compensate with peak domesticity. Despite what appears to be a complete lack of knowledge of what “games” are on or what people eat (besides chana masala and gin), I’m evidently excited. I clearly have an inflated sense of self and a can-do attitude. Good for me! But what happened?

Maybe I drank too many Anheuser-Busch products last weeked. I do love a Marlboro 27 and a Bud Light Lime at breakfast. But is this the price I must pay?

Maybe it’s an Idle Hands situation. Maybe the lifetime of systemic patriarchy has entered my subconscious and my fingers just want to lose a bunch of weight and be married to Kevin James.

Maybe I just really want to eat 7-layer dip. My body has registered that it’s been 20 whole years since I vomited a ton of it on my uncle’s couch during the Stanley Cup finals of 1999.

Maybe I have Dissociative Identity Disorder. The other me,  some bitch named Nikki, wrote her name with a heart over the ‘i’ until she was 18. Her stepfather played (poorly) for the NFL and voted from Trump. She’s a really good wife and has never thrown up from either alcohol or bulimia. She drinks 2 Brooklyn Pilsners at “the game” and sometimes, when the mood is right, calls her husband “daddy” in bed.

And maybe, somewhere, Nikki is sitting in bed, relaxed without any benzos, positing in her journal why her search history includes “can you die from an undiagnosed Staph Infection” and “tampon lost in vagina”.

Fin.