Chicken Nubbins

Pardon me for the hiatus, my dear nonexistent readers. I briefly lost my voice and recently found it; it was in the dryer. I mean, who am I kidding? Everything you ever lose will be in the dryer. That is, if it's not in the couch. Because gremlins speak binary. 

How come there aren't any morning shows about fluff? Buzzfeed me not, but humour me here; you'd wake up in the morning to "Hey! Here's what you missed: No people died over stupid shit that could have been easily avoided if a certain person in power didn't have a stick up his ass and this bird learned the harmonica!" Wouldn't that be nice? The closest we ever got to that revolutionary idea was the Teletubbies, and that was pure unadulterated horror. I mean, oversized alien babies with TV screens on their tummies and a giggling sun baby in a field overcome with bunnies. Are you shitting me? I've lost count of how many times that show reduced me to a blubbering pile of pink flesh as a kid, little did I know it would have the same effect on me for entirely different reasons years later.

Good morning, sunshine!

Oh yeah, I turned 22, so there's that. It was no big deal, other than the fact that I'm actually an adult now. 21 doesn't count as an adult, you see, because it's still special. You can't be an adult and be special, nothing is special about adulthood. Adulthood is perhaps identified by its utter lack of special-dom, or any -dom. Or any drum roll-type sound. Or any prefix to call your own, really. You've been dethroned, little princess; you no longer rule a kingdom of hearts. You're not a special little snowflake, and you never really were. Surprise surprise! The world isn't grey, it's brown, the colour of shit. Well, healthy shit, mind you. Be thankful for that. You'll have to worry about your health from now on, no more taking the stairs for a quick workout or going for coffee because it's yummy; you take the elevator so you don't miss work, and you shove coffee down your stupid little mouth to stay up long enough to do aforementioned work, then shut up. 

Also, there's work. It's called work now. Not that it wasn't called work before, it just takes on a whole different meaning when you have to do it to afford rent at the end of the month as opposed to taking the job for the experience and pondering about the opportunity it offers to your oblivious human condition, of which you probably spent 30% of your time worrying about where the hell your life is going. Well guess what? Your human condition has been cured, you hit the jackpot and the lucky number was 22. That's the thing about 22. The special dates are over, the 1's and the 5's and the 16's and the 21's have gone byebye. They put on their little glittery red shoes and took a long hippidy-hoppidy walk down a long timey-wimey yellow brick road, off to see the wonderful wizard of Oz who DOESN'T FUCKING EXIST, GROW UP!

Now that THAT'S out of my system, I can get on with this blog entry. I found out about this great dessert called babas. Babas is basically a cake that's saturated with a syrup of your choice. It can also be made with hard liquor, usually rum. (Click me for yummies!)

(Disclaimer: In case the above paragraph has incurred any worries about my state of mental health by suggesting I might have taken up baking or now hold any interest whatsoever in the gateway to hell that is the kitchen, you are quite mistaken. I'm still a hazard in the kitchen and have no intention of changing that. I also firmly believe the apron was developed by Snow White's witch out of the original failed prototype of the magically compressing belt-vice, in order to kill women and remain the most beautiful of them all. Mind your lore, sheesh. Don't you ever read?)

You see, I'd never had that babas dessert before, and the only reason I tried was because I'd run out of my go-to chocolate favourite. And to the partially-starved millenial me, raiding the fridge at 5 o'clock in the morning, that was the closest thing to a spiritual experience I got since Emma Watson answered my muggle-post with a signed headshot 10 years ago.

Fucking wow, I can credibly use "10 years ago" now.

Anyway, back to the point. So there I was, going for the shittiest-looking dessert in the leftover gâteaux soirées stash from last night's dinner to seal the deal and silence my alimentary bagpipe when the dessert turned into cake and the cake turned into something wonderful. There's a lesson for you here somewhere about the great things that wait for you outside of your comfort zone that I shamelessly pondered over the next 2 minutes, so grab it while you can. You get the metaphor, I'll get the cake. I mean, I knew cake could never disappoint me, every woman at the turn of her first decade knows that by now, but this one actually went the extra mile! Gosh golly, I thought, this one's a real keeper.

And with this, my dear non-existent readers, I leave you to get on with my day. Don't you ever change, I love just the way you are. 

That is to say, non-existent. 

...And a happy new year!