I rarely think of myself as a genius. And, when I do, it's not because of I wrote or said anything profound. At best, my writing is motivated by impressing strange chicks I meet in stranger bars and my talking is used as a severe distraction from whatever I am currently wearing.
I've come to realize that the only time I award myself the obnoxious title of "genius" is when I make complex meals without recipes (which is often achieved by randomly combining ingredients I find around the kitchen in a hopeful attempt to not starve or leave the house) or by turning one meal into many. That's about it. I really only declare myself a genius when I have a mouth full of food.
"Kilroy, you magnificent bastard genius," I recently announced to myself, hardly understandable with my face being crammed with rice noodles and soy chicken. I happened to be watching yet another episode of Cheers (the entire series is on Netflix's instant streaming, people) and I had heroically saved the broth of the Loving Hut's royal noodle soup and turned it into a fourth meal by coolly adding a few ingredients all radically and what have you.
So next time you think, "That Jake is no genius," just wait until I turn some leftover burrito into a taco salad three days later and your brain explodes from sensual joy. YOU JUST WAIT, AMERICA. I'M ALWAYS COOKING UP SOMETHING.
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3 comments:
You need to apply this to a Monday night dinner sometime.
It's the desperation that motivates me to make up things on the fly. I never try it out of whimsical fun. It's a delicate art that only comes to me after I debate picking up fast food for twenty minutes and then decide on smashing what I find in the depths of my fridge into a glorious sandwich or pasta. And what if it goes awry? I'll never be invited back!
I can't risk that, Non.
My business card proclaims genius for me. Whatever.
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