You know you’ve hit a new low when making a peanut butter sandwich seems like too much work despite the fact that you forgot to eat dinner.

It was that crunchy organic shit though. The shit that doesn’t come premixed. The shit with the oil floating on top just forcing you to make churning one more task in your already arduous day. Plus it has that plastic sealing. That sealing that I’m gonna need a knife to open, though it is the same knife that I will use to do my churning.

I did it though. I broke seals, churned, spread peanut butter on a piece of bread, and put the other piece of bread back because I realized I could just fold the one I had already peanut-buttered and doing double the work seemed like, well, a lot of work. Then I had to wash the knife. Ugh. My life is getting too difficult.

It has been well documented about how much I love Beyonce and Lady Gaga and hate my penis. I’m too lazy to say something new about them, but felt a need to say something and figured I could go back to my old standbys in writing even if only through link/reference.

My pants are not as good of napkins as I wanted them to be and the oil that leaked out of my sandwich and onto my hand because I didn’t churn well enough is now creating stains that look like I’ve done something fun with my Saturday night. That’s right. I am now saying that I could improve my Saturday night by getting into a thumb plus-four-other-fingers war with my penis, but my roommate has some big law school paper due, so he’s still yelling at the furniture.