(no subject)
Hoover made me some sort of vegetable noodle slop for dinner, bless his little heart. The first few bites were delicious. Well, as delicious as something not made of sugar can be, I guess.
But then it happened, somewhere after the fourth bite. (I wish I knew which bite for certain, but the trauma of it all has rendered my memory useless.)
I bit into something crunchy. My shoulders promptly rose to my ears.
Long ago, it was established that Erin does not like unexpected crunch in her food. There was even an edict posted all throughout her family tree.
I do not like onions (carmelized or red onion rings on sandwiches are accepted), celery, large-grain salt, sand. Do not want! If the onions are large, I don't mind if they're in a dish because I can pick them out. DO NOT TRY TO TRICK ME BY DICING THEM OR WE WILL HAVE WORDS. Nothing makes me lose my macaroni salad boner quite like a rogue onion.
Not only was there crunch, but there were numerous assailants that seemed akin to wood. Like twigs, maybe? Hoover tends to get a little too liberal when playing with herbs and spices.
I ate a few more bites, chewing slowly and deliberately, searching for more kernels of crunch, but I soon tired of pulling out twigs and small hard grains of something scary from the sides of my mouth. It's like he sprinkled a satchel of forest in my meal.
It's like Hoover's own version of anal sex, but even if he lubes the crunchies copiously with oil, sneakily hides them among my favorite noodle as a distraction, or lights candles and plays my favorite CD, they still don't belong, I still notice them, and I still hate it.
Hoover, you hurt my heart.
But then it happened, somewhere after the fourth bite. (I wish I knew which bite for certain, but the trauma of it all has rendered my memory useless.)
I bit into something crunchy. My shoulders promptly rose to my ears.
Long ago, it was established that Erin does not like unexpected crunch in her food. There was even an edict posted all throughout her family tree.
I do not like onions (carmelized or red onion rings on sandwiches are accepted), celery, large-grain salt, sand. Do not want! If the onions are large, I don't mind if they're in a dish because I can pick them out. DO NOT TRY TO TRICK ME BY DICING THEM OR WE WILL HAVE WORDS. Nothing makes me lose my macaroni salad boner quite like a rogue onion.
Not only was there crunch, but there were numerous assailants that seemed akin to wood. Like twigs, maybe? Hoover tends to get a little too liberal when playing with herbs and spices.
I ate a few more bites, chewing slowly and deliberately, searching for more kernels of crunch, but I soon tired of pulling out twigs and small hard grains of something scary from the sides of my mouth. It's like he sprinkled a satchel of forest in my meal.
It's like Hoover's own version of anal sex, but even if he lubes the crunchies copiously with oil, sneakily hides them among my favorite noodle as a distraction, or lights candles and plays my favorite CD, they still don't belong, I still notice them, and I still hate it.
Hoover, you hurt my heart.