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"Um, there's food in your hair."

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Life In Tha Dirty B

Today I woke up from my Xanax-induced slumber with a chihuhau-mix puppy on each breast.

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I’d like to tell you that the night before I had left my crack den apartment, white-girl twerked the night away & made an emotional connection with a human woman/man, but no. Instead I spent my night frantically Wikipedia-ing Gouda cheese, lisping along to Drake through Crest Whitestrips, and forcing my two 8-lb dog-children Taco & Nacho into a position so that I would be middle spon.

I recently moved to Bushwick aka “Tha Dirty B” aka “Rape St. USA” and am living with my friend Roman and a Canadian male model named Tina*

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Roman

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Tina*

They sleep in a bunkbed in the next room, and our apartment is something like a bizarro world Threes Company, only with more hair products.*

I also now have a corporate j-o-b where I have started wearing Hillary Clinton pantsuits and I like it.

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Now instead of waking up hungover next to a pizza box that looks like a raccoon has attacked it, my mornings consist of me:

  • removing dogs from each teet
  • taking a shower (I know)
  • packing a healthy lunch (I know, again)
  • power-walking to the L train in sensible flats to the husky overtures of an elderly meat factory worker grunting: “Looks goooood on ya, snowflake.”

(I assume he’s referring to the flats, but he could be a shoulder-pad guy.)

Check back soon for my next post “OKcupid? More like OKSTUPID!!! #LOL #SINGLE”

JUST EAT THE FOOD

*Names have been changed for privacy

*Thanks to Tim Garbinsky for this lucid and haunting comparison

Filed under drake male model zoolander comedy ucb the pit okcupid funny girl werk twerk girls hillary clinton justeatthefood food foodporn

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Hale & Hearty 2016


This recent presidential election highlighted an intense divide in our nation.

It is now more clear than ever that some people are Democrats, some people are Republicans, some people are vampires and some people are humans who love them.

But the one thing we can agree on across the political and mythical spectrum is that everyone enjoys a good bowl of soup.*

This is why 3-7 nights out of the week you can find me at the Hale & Hearty Soup on 23rd and Madison, taking up an obscene amount of window-seats with a hoarder’s cocktail of bags, coats and empty soup containers, dunking my chicken salad sandwich into a jumbo container of Tomato Cheddar soup with a fervor that can only be described as “NSFW.”

My neighborhood Hale & Hearty Soup is like Cheers! where everybody knows your name, only here absolutely no one knows who you are or gives a sh*t about you, and there is a surly Hispanic teen named Marco whose sole purpose, it seems, is to remind you of this.

The scenes of sexual tension between me and the aforementioned Marco usually go something like this:

Me: Hey there! How’s it going?

Marco: (surly and wearing a hairnet in silence, staring ahead)

Me: So what’s good today?

Marco: (dead eyes, more silence, more staring, thrusts hand at board)

Me: Alright! I think I’ll try a sample of the loaded baked potato! Sounds cheesy!

Marco: (removes lid from vat of soup and slams it down, throws ladle into liquid, slops soup into a tiny plastic cup and skids it across the counter at me)

Me: (catching cup) Woo! Looks good today. (sips) I’ll take a large one of this please!  This’ll get the juices flowing for my writing today!

Marco: (rolls eyes and speaks flatly) 7-grain or sourdough

Me: Sorry, what?

Marco: (annoyed) I said, 7-grain or sourdough

Me: Oh, both please!

Marco: (looks me up and down and tosses both breads on counter with disgust)

Me: Thanks bro! (goes for fist bump)

Marco: (systematically denies fist bump and shifts entire body away from me)

Despite this particular love-hate relationship, there is a striking sense of camaraderie among soup-lovers. It seems that hot, savory, liquid truly transcends race, gender, age and sexual preference.

As if to prove this, at the present moment this Hale & Hearty crew* consists of: a serial-killer-esque man in a a trench coat silently watching his Asian girlfriend eat soup in the studious and determined way of someone plotting how to murder their next victim, a 20-something blonde woman in post-workout gear pawing at her lentil soup, and a small Indian child in a stroller screaming for his mother.

As I sit, staring at them from my window perch, with traces of Tomato Cheddar around my mouth, looking out the window at trash bags piled outside on the sidewalk, the dog with three legs, and the woman who looks like she bathed with a can of tuna, I am overwhelmed with a sense of hope and unity for our country. 

It reminds me of Obama’s famous speech at the Democratic National Convention in 2004 where he said, “There’s not a liberal America and a conservative America; there are people who like soup and then there are people who are idiots.”

So I sit back, comforted by the fact that I am that small Indian child, I am that creepy white dude, I am that … Ok I am not that girl in workout gear.


JUST EAT THE FOOD


*For vampires, that’s blood soup.

*As I call them. I got us jackets but no one wears them.

Filed under Democrats GIMME DAT NSFW Obama Republicans hale & hearty soup the peoples improv theater the pit nyc upright citizens brigade yum Hale & Hearty

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alreadyseenalreadyheard-deactiv asked: Can we be friends? Please and thank you.

Done and done :)

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Bacon God, Give Me Strength

This past week I was laid off from my job and broke up with my boyfriend.

Needless to say, I am now on a 13 hour-a-day sleeping schedule and wear my pajamas to social engagements.

I’m in the beginning stages of Grey Gardens and my apartment is slowly turning from a “cozy studio” into a “den of broken dreams”*

My mom now ends our (multiple, daily) phone calls with “Please go outside!”

During times like this, some people to turn to a higher power.

I, being a heathen, turn to bacon.

Last night I went to a diner with my friend and ordered challah french toast with maple syrup and bacon, followed by a cheesecake, followed by an egg sandwich, with a chocolate milkshake on the side.

If my calculations are correct, in approximately 5 weeks I will have zero self esteem and a hell of a lot of Delivery.com points.

“Is this a cry for help?” you ask.

No, more like a burp.

Be kind to me, Bacon God.

And in the meantime…

JUST EAT THE FOOD

* If you don’t know what I’m talking about, now you do: Grey Gardens

Filed under bacon God CollegeHumor the pit nyc ucb break ups boyfriends jobs yum

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Naming My Fupa: A Journal Entry from May 10th

I’ve spent the past three hours rolling around in bed in a mixture of sweat and Indian food. I can’t tell if it’s hot in my apartment or if the heat is coming from the kinetic energy of me eating three plates of paratha.

I started tonight thinking, “You know what? I’m treating myself. I deserve it!” (and all that Eat, Pray, Love bullsh*t) Cut to three hours later, I’m spread-eagle on my bed, angrily sipping a mango lassi out of a straw.

I’ve decided to stop eating meat for a while. This turn of events came when I touched the ribbed, hard vein on the underside of a raw chicken the other night and nearly threw up.

My new “vegetarian” diet has increased my bread and cheese intake tenfold. I now order Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale and Hearty two times a day. I am slowly going broke, gaining weight and losing self respect. (In other words, my usual prep for bikini season.)

You know what F**K THAT S**T! F**k killing yourself to look good for three months out of the year. Just give up like me. It’s easy. Turn the lights off during sex. Problem solved.

I’m beginning to get a belly and I kind of like it. Now I just unbutton my top button at work and let it hang. That made for an awkward moment with my co-worker the other day but it sure felt good.

My pouch is comforting like a little friend, or a pet. I want to name it something cool like “Zanzabar” or “Melissa” or something.

Eh well, Master Chef is on.

Bye!

JUST EAT THE FOOD

Filed under collegehumor fat food girl humor indian food justeatthefood sad the pit nyc vegetarian

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Lunch For One

I’ve never been one of those “eat lunch in the park” kind of girls. You know the type with the work-appropriate sundresses, eating colorful salads and reading about DIY tampon doilies or whatever.

I’m more of a “sweaty, dirty pants-wearing, huffing food into my mouth over the keyboard and crying” kind of girl. (For more on this check out my post: How to Eat a Bag of Tostitos “Hint of Lime” Chips in One Sitting )

But today I decided to “go out and get some sun!”*

On my way to the park, I picked up some pan-seared salmon from Cafetasia off of Broadway. It had a B rating but I like to live on the edge.

"Pan-seared" turned out to be a generous term, as what was handed to me was a plastic container of gray fish soup.

"F**k it, not turning back now,” I thought, walking past a teen couple dry-humping on a mound of grass in Washington Square Park.*

I quickly scanned my surroundings for a vacant bench with enough space on either side so that I wouldn’t have to make human contact. Next I uncovered my salmon soup. It smelled like my five year-old sister’s wet swimsuit, but as it was my only available sustenance, I dove in.

Apart from the sloshing mixture beneath it, it really wasn’t that bad. I started snacking on the accompanying container of white rice, alternating bites and was having a pretty good time with it. 

Soon a homeless gentleman man pulled up next to me and spread some cardboard down for a nap. Things were looking up.

Then it happened: I turned, grabbing my purse and the plastic container holding my salmon soup crashed to the ground, splashing oily fish water all over my pants. 

"Raaaaah!" I yelled, to the surrounding people’s blank stares.

F**k the park.

JUST EAT THE FOOD

Have you ever spilled s**t on your pants? Done something embarassing in a public setting? Email me at: justeatthefood@gmail.com. Let’s talk about it.

* As my mother often suggests to me with anxious eyes in a tone usually reserved for mental patients on the verge of breakdown.

* May or may not have lingered a little too long looking at them. I’m a creep. It’s my cross to bear.

Filed under CollegeHumor the pit nyc salmon wet bathing suits fish yum eating alone sadness