Today Sarah went down to the hinter to see family, leaving me to fend for myself for approximately 30 hours. I know you don't have a husband, Food Diary, but if your compulsive internet dating ever works out and you land one, keep this grim statistic in mind:
There's a six-hour safety threshold for leaving people like me (dudes) home alone. Every two-hour interval after that approximately doubles the likelyhood that we'll break something important, burn down the house, or die. After 24 hours, we're almost certain to do all three.
So Sarah is taking a calculated risk abandoning me here for as long as she is. But she's overdue for some mother/sister time (no, they're not going to watch Chinatown), and I could do with a few hours of the faux-bachelor life. I listened to sports talk radio really loud all morning while I worked, and tonight I spent several hours playing piano. It's like Animal House over here.
Foodwise, I'm making due with whatever is within reach and doesn't require any elaborate preparation.
Breakfast was a Tony's Crispy Crust cheese pizza.
The secret to enjoying things like this monstrosity and its retarded cousin, Totino's Party Pizza, is to forget that it's supposed to be a pizza. It's not one. It's something else, something terrible. Something oddly delicious and addictive, full of unrecognizable elements that are technically edible but non-nutritive.
Speaking of which, this was lunch:
I know. But just look at them!
Plus trans fats will kill me much more slowly than burning to death in a fire would. I already took a chance putting that pizza in the oven earlier -- I'm not going to tempt fate.
As the hours wear on, I'm being extra careful. I didn't even open the Oreo bag with a knife.
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