You know what I'm sick of?
1. cooking. I have cooked up a week's worth of chicken, a ranch's worth of beef and endless salads. (Yes, I consider making salads to be cooking. Don't fuck with me. I'm off peanut butter cups and this whole ship could blow at the slightest provocation.) My house stinks of burned flesh. I am sick of cooking. And I'm sick of figuring out a vegetable to eat. What's the point of vegetables anyway? Why don't they taste AWESOME? I can say I like baked cauliflower but let's be honest, it's not fabulous. I mean, it's fabulous as far as vegetables go, but seriously, Not Fabulous.
You know what else I'm sick of?
2. cleaning. Cooking means dishes. And when you burn everything to a tasty
crisp, every single fucking dish has to be cleaned with like steel wool (which is basically an extra workout so I should shut the hell up.) I am running the dishwasher every single day and sometimes TWICE a day depending on how ever many science experiments I conduct over the course of a day. Sick of it. Done. Over it.
I want a cook and a maid. And Jozette, if you're reading this, I would take Sawyer first. Except right now imagining Sawyer delivering me a piping hot dinner of hamburger patty and tomatoes ENRAGES ME, and his smirky fuckface attitude makes me even madder so I think I would slap him and then fire him (a la Miz Helmsley). And then I would hire Jack to bring me eggs in the morning and I would feel sorry for him because he used to be so cute and now he's a whiny little bitch that doesn't deserve any action at all. I would let him make my eggs and my baked cauliflower (and clean up afterwards, natch) and I would happily eat it because I'd think, "Poor Jack. What a pathetic loser. I'm so much better than him even if I can only eat chicken and salad." (Fortunately, my husband is smoking hot so I can sleep with him and won't need whinypants for anything other than cooking and cleaning.)
And now I feel so much better that I can go to bed. After I finish the dishes.