Hell's Kitchen

Hell doesn't have a kitchen. Hell is a kitchen. It's a kitchen with white tile floor so that you see and feel every particle of food waste that drips on to it. A kitchen with a stack of dishes so high that they call it Mt. Doom. A kitchen with trash that reeks of rotting meat and old cabbage. A kitchen where all the pots and pans are way to high too reach. A kitchen with infinite Tupperware but no lids. A kitchen with a microwave that doesn't rotate, a stove that smokes, and a refrigerator that doesn't stay closed. In essence, Hell's Kitchen is my apartment kitchen.

God has given me a few Catch 22s to work through. The quagmire that has so particularly vexed me of late is my love of eating vs. my hatred of cooking.
Guys, I love eating, but I hate cooking.
HATE.
Like, I never get so close to swearing as I do when I am cooking.

I'm going to college so that I can make enough money to never cook again. As far as I'm concerned the purpose of getting rich is so that you don't have to make your own food. That's why a Culinary Arts degree is the biggest joke in the world. WHAT'S THE POINT OF MAKING GOOD MONEY IF YOU STILL WIND UP COOKING FOR YOURSELF?

When I'm stirring a pot I feel like all the elements of the universe have conspired together to stir the pot of my life. Only, my life isn't a pot; it's a hornets' nest. I'm not crying because I'm cutting onions. Oh wait, yes I am. I just hate cutting onions so much that I can't hold back the tears.

Some people were born to cook. I am not one of those people. "Make your own food," they said. "It'll be fun," they said. Two hours later the house is a mess, the embers of an unidentifiable mass are still smoking, and you can't tell that I've been crying rivers because I'm soaked from the explosive sink that showered me when I tried rinsing off a spoon and now I have to explain to everyone I talk to for the next half hour that I didn't wet my pants... again.

When I make cookies for people they say, "Thanks for the biscuits." When I make barbecue chicken, it has to be thrown away because it breaks four health code restrictions, five UN ordinances, and two terms of agreement of the Geneva Convention.  My roommates sees my outcast food and asks who vomited in the trash. Only all my hopes and dreams.

It all started with the bread maker, or rather the dough maker. Whatever it's called, it wasted my hard-earned dough and didn't make me bread. It just made me sad. IS ONE SLICE OF HOMEMADE BREAD TOO MUCH TO ASK?! OH THE HUMANITY!!

I can't have my cake and bake it too.