Hungry, Lazy

My Bed

I’m glad  to wake up in my bed. Not that I don’t usually, but on days when I have absolutely nothing that I have to do, waking up in my bed is the best. It has food near it from the last couple of nights when I decided the cupboards in my kitchen were too far away when I was going to sleep, it has my computer on it because there is no reason to let that get away from me.

Sure it smells like sweat, is covered in crumbs, and has a big indentation where my body is that is really bad for my back, but it’s so easy. Since I have no windows I don’t even have to see the beautiful day that I’m missing. I hope it’s not beautiful outside because I don’t want to be missing something.

Fuck it, what could I be missing – I have hulu, honey bbq chips, challah, and my sweaty bed.

Depressed, Hungry

Depression Chips

I don’t buy enough food to support a depression. As I’ve stated before I do not seek hierarchy in my emotions and therefore am prone to bouts of depression, existential angst, and fearful running away. I do most of these with a smile on my face because I am aware that this means I am living correctly. The problem is that these bouts, however non normative they may be, are still supplemented with the typical lethargy and hunger that is associated with depression. Considering how lazy I am in my normal life and how desperately I constantly seek food, this means I become a mindless, moveless, eating machine.

The problem is that I live on restaurant row and work in a restaurant and my kitchen has flooded multiple times with the sewage of the entire apartment building. I don’t buy many groceries. When I lived in Maine, I had a basement full of outdated healthfood snacks that I would bring into my recliner chair to comfort me in my time of upper class white guilt, but now I have no chips to keep my mouth in constant motion, and I have no sleeves of cookies to magically disappear during the time it takes a sitcom to finish because I forget to buy snacks.

Snacks are more important than we pretend they are. If I could just eat snacks and not eat meals, I would. Especially if there were dipping sauces.

There was a summer where I lived next to a Super America. Super America is the convenience store of the midwest that offers you chili if you push a button. I loved SA. I used to go there for donuts and come away with a sandwich, cheese and ranch dipping sauces and three different bags of chips. The best part about that was not finishing all the chips. Tomorrow, when you are playing mariokart and don’t want to leave the house, you don’t have to because you have bags of opened doritos lining every part of the house.

I need to buy more chips and leave them in secret hiding places all around the house. That would keep me going through this depression. It also might bring me friends in the form of rodents. YAY!

Attention Whoring, Gender, Hungry, Indignant, Lazy, Media, My favorites, Selfish

Type Ayudame into

Our world is transforming through technology. Okay, I’ll wait a second while that uber profound statement sets in. I know it’s taking a while because no one has ever said anything like it before. I’m still waiting because I think you are still flabbergasted by my extreme assertion. I now am going to continue to wait to see how much I can make you read while I think of how I am going to relate this to feminism and possibly socialism.

Got it!

Sure. I also hate douchebags who beat women, but creating a facebook group about it puts that opinion on the same level as this one. Both could even be true. You might have been scared by “Are You Afraid of the Dark” and dislike domestic abuse, but I would never talk about both of those opinions in the same sentence.

I understand that it makes me sound like an old person clinging to my fear of change if I say that facebook groups, or MySpace petitions, or Twit-complaints trivialize issues that need to be dealt with in a more traditional way so instead I will say that the gentrification of these casual internet sites into supposedly meaningful expressions of belief just offers its users the ability to feel self-righteous without accomplishing anything worthwhile.

I’m sure there are people who join the facebook group to save Darfur who are also holding fundraisers, but there are plenty who are not. That’s not necessarily harmful – in fact it’s completely neutral and I’m fine with that. If facebook didn’t exist those people would be just as harmless and harmful. They would simply discuss it in person and do nothing about it. No big deal. Not the worst thing in the world. The problem comes in that facebook offers these people with a tangible piece of evidence to call on when their morality is questioned. I don’t mean that there is a group of morality police running around questioning the validity of each person’s indignant opinions in terms of how much they actually try to help the problem they discuss, but rather that when that person’s conscience acts as the morality police they need to know exactly how much good they are doing for the world.

You don’t become a feminist because you joined a facebook group declaring that you “Hate douchebags who beat women” especially when the group description uses the problematic word “pussy” to describe the offenders, and you aren’t helping the situation in Haiti by joining a group that states that “Haiti makes me : (.”

Last night I got the maddest I’ve gotten in years when I brought back my steaming hot bowl of Annie’s Mac’n’Cheese from the kitchen and immediately tripped and dumped the entire bowl onto my laptop. I swore like a pirate who found out his half finished bottle of rum had actually been AIDS-juice. This was because my two biggest loves of my life: Food and My Computer had attacked each other and made each other less useful. The white gloss of cheese across my keyboard and the dirty macaroni that is settling my stomach serve to remind me of the most traumatic experience of my past year. I say this because I am well aware that this is not the biggest deal in the world, but to me it was.

I don’t have the money or time to help out the horrible situation in Haiti, or Darfur, or Afghanistan, or any number of other disturbing things that happen in our world. I only have the money to go back to Minnesota come early March to visit my friends and see my old sketch group’s comedy show. Fuck, I’m selfish, but at least I don’t fake selflessness. Technology has allowed us to do this and I hate indignant rants on the internet that don’t do anything or effect anybody except allowing the ranter to feel better about themselves.

Wow. I feel much better now.

Hungry, Indignant


Hot sauce.

I like condiments. I don’t think any food is complete without the addition of at least three sauces. I once came home from working in the computer lab on my useless mathematics degree to open an empty fridge except a loosely wrapped pile of corn tortillas and a door full of mustards, hot sauces, and wasabi ketchups. That was fine. Protein be damned! I made myself a peanut butter, mayo, chipotle, wasabi, curry wrap. It was delish.


I wish it were societally acceptable to eat meals of condiments. My latest purchase of french fries was complimented nicely with a mix of 10 different mustards. I used the fries as ladles to spoon the mixture of mustards into my mouth. It was delish.

Peanut Sauce.

The reason sauces are so good is because there is such variety. And what happens when you mix two sauces? You get a new sauce. Neat. Any sauce goes with any other sauce. No sauces are necessary to be separated. Sauces are the food equivalent to integration, and what better time to talk about integration than days after MILK Jr. Day. I say MILK Jr. because I think the man would appreciate being compared to a typical ingredient in condiments. Though condiments are able to be mixed, they also maintain their ethnic origins in terms of taste. Like if you add peanut sauce and ketchup together it tastes like Indian American food. It’s delish.


This is how we should treat race. You should mate with someone of a different race but maintain a vibrant understanding of where you come from. Let’s sauce up our diversity!

Hungry, Indignant, My favorites, Nostalgia

Giving Living

Gifts are stupid. I’ve never been able to handle gifts worth money or gifts that aren’t immediately disposable; gifts that aren’t food. I like food. Gifts are meant to illustrate to someone that you care about their life, but unless you are buying a house or food for a person you aren’t providing any of the necessities to life. Instead you are providing them with one more thing that they aren’t allowed to throw out when they move – one more thing to throw in the back of a u-haul because of their obligatory sentimental attachment to hunks of wood or metal.

I am not just a lover of nostalgia, but a liver of nostalgia. I am the liver of nostalgia. That’s not to say I’m the best person at living nostalgically, but rather to say that I consider myself the vital organ that detoxifies nostalgia. Gifts are to nostalgia as chugging a handle of Jackie D is to your body.

To a true future-pastian, nostalgia is all one lives for, but nostalgia comes in the form of memories. Memories are what make you fond for a moment, and gifts are like forcing memories that need not exist. It’s like someone is hijacking your desire to remember certain events and saying “remember me more! I’m a needy fuck-ass and I want to prevalent in your life by buying you something.”

Buying you something.

I repeat that because I want to point out that every time you buy a gift you are slapping a poor woman in the face. Figuratively of course, though every time I get a gift I slap a homelesswomen in the face out of a desire to make the figurative literal. Gifts are purchased out of a desire to be remembered, but if you don’t have the money to purchase a gift (and don’t give me that shit about making gifts because materials that go into crafts cost money too you rich fuck) than do you not deserve to be remembered? I say you do, and therefore I will not keep your gift – instead opting to discard your attempt to simultaneously rape my memory and the less fortunate individuals of our society into the nearest receptacle.

Memories are sacred and are not to be tampered with or taken advantage of. When I turned 5 my parents threw me an enormous birthday party with homemade carnival games in our backyard, my entire kindergarten class, and a carrot cake that nobody liked because they were five. I’m sure I received a gift from every child at my party, but I only remember one. It was a little toy car. My mom took me aside before we opened presents and told me: “Dustin is going to give you something small, but that doesn’t mean it’s bad. It’s his favorite car and he gave it to you because his parents couldn’t afford to buy something else. Don’t be mad at him.” I wasn’t. I was very thankful. I don’t actually remember if his name was Dustin, but I still remember the car (the gift) and I played with it for the rest of the day. At the end of the day I gave it back to him because I didn’t feel right keeping it. Even back then I knew that the nostalgia he had associated with that object was more to him than to me. To me it was the act of giving that inspired memories.

That’s why gifts should always be food. Because we shouldn’t need the object around to remember the event of giving – that’s lazy. Instead we should savor the taste of creating that memory in the moment both literally and figuratively so that I don’t have to punch homeless women in the face anymore.

Attention Whoring, Death, Hungry

Show Tonight!

I am performing tonight at Tank Theater. It’s the first sketch show performed by Rachel and the Elf, my terribly boringly named sketch troupe with a really cool logo done by Paul Swartz.

It should be fun, and soon I will be happy again because I will have been onstage. I’m sorry to all of you for the upcoming drivel I will be producing from my bed of smiles, rainbows, and unicorn farts.

If you are in New York, come!

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about death a lot recently because I’ve been alive and I don’t really think there is a more useful topic to think about then the ultimate change (aka: death). If there is a heaven, which there is not, I would like these things available to me:

1. A very full refrigerator whose door is jam-packed with condiments.

2. G-chat.

3. A large stage with an even larger audience.

4. Porn that as soon as you’ve cum turns into very funny feminist comedy.

5. Bubble machines.

6. Two different 24 hour donut shops within walking distance.

7. Somehow I don’t have to shave anymore.

8. Or do laundry.

9. I have to go eat because all I keep thinking about is different foods that I want in heaven. And right now.

Hungry, Lazy

Don’t Potty Train

I don’t know how quickly my body deals with food, but I ate a bite of a bran muffin only to have to take an immediate shit. I have mixed feelings about large, open bathrooms. I like the space because even if I’m on a jerky train out to Long Island the size of my stall makes me fell like a king who has room to spare even in his poopiest hour. The fact that I was excreting bran muffin made the openness uncomfortable as I was unable to truly utilize the floor in front of me – I can’t pace or do jumping jacks while dribbling out some poo. Soon I started imagining someone else using the space I was leaving unused. My imaginary bathroom friend made me self-concious about the sounds, sights, and smells that I was making during this should-be-private activity. And while he was pacing back and forth, discussing our military strategy for defeating our alien intruders from our snow fort, all I could think was how mad I was for needing to multitask. Really pooping should not be a multitask activity. This is coming from a man who did most of his high-school homework on the can – a guy who has made dinner for himself only to set up a table in front of the toilet for instant ironic snacking. When I say multitask I mean specifically that it should not involve another person. For me, most people that I interact with are imaginary anyway, so those self-created-conversations are what I refer to when I discuss the pain of conversing on the throne.

I like to articulate my points with gesticulation and I like the opportunity to leave the room if my discussion-mate becomes too boring. Babies are constant feces multitaskers. They don’t mind staring at you and taking a dump while they walk the premises to check for shiny things. That’s because they get to have their toilet strapped around their waist. Sure this means that their waste is also trapped around their waist, but at least their good at the poop’n’discuss. They can gesticulate or find a new room to chill in mid-dump. I want that. Potty training was the most useless education I’ve ever received – and I took a psychology class in college.

Hungry, Lazy

Small Eats

When both my parents were young they were told they didn’t eat enough. This made them feel insecure about their inability to finish their food. Thusly, my inability to indifference toward fully cleaning my own plate was met with unwavering understanding. That combined with my forced vegetarianism has probably contributed to my 124 lb. frame now.

I’m not blaming them. I’ll move along quickly to the part where I forgive them for making me into the comedic being wearing women’s clothes that I am today as to not redundisize.

I ate 4 donuts on the way to dinner today. This proves two things: Donuts are delicious and I can eat like a motherfucker when I enjoy food. I’ve also been full after three bites of cauliflower meatloaf. My parents trained me to eat how much I wanted of what I wanted. This translates over to my life (as food is simply a parable for life) and my parents have also trained me to live life by doing what I wanted at a specific moment. Food is a fleeting enjoyment. Since I treated food as something that I could eat or not eat without consequence, I began to treat life in the same way – as a series of fleeting inconsequential moments.

That’s not to say I don’t feel guilt or remorse or trepidation. Far from it. Those might be the only three things I feel (besides the flat shaft of my penis as I type with my left hand). I just don’t give in to those feelings. Those feelings effect purely my feelings as opposed to determining my actions. Just as my desire to not finish my garden burger led to me not finishing my garden burger, my desires to spit or pee on the sidewalk lead to me expelling my internal liquids on the New York City streets.

Maybe that’s why I feel guilty all the time. Because I don’t know how to censor my actions for the greater good of my life. Fuck you mom and dad. Why’d you have to make me a terrible human being.

Hungry, Lazy


I don’t think I can eat again. Let me rephrase that. With my stomach distended like a child on a Sally Struthers infomercial, I think eating would be more difficult than listening to Dennis Miller’s standup without wikipedia on speed dial. That joke was funny because of the hypocrisy of the phrasing.

Instead I sit in the middle of my mattress with my fan on high blast hoping that the moving of air will allow me to move my bowels as well. I have three glasses of water, two of them empty sitting to my right and I’ve gone piss 40 times so far today. Yet I can’t force out a shit.

Two nights ago I went to deposit my tip and tutoring money into my bank account. I was excited to use Chase’s ATMs that you just shove your wad of cash into and it reads how much you’ve given it and deposits that amount directly. It ate my money. I had an immediate reaction similar to when the same thing happened at the YMCA when you were 10 and your were trying to buy a small bag of fruit snacks and the twirling metal hand of food-giving held onto the ripples in the bag a little too hard. I pouted. Then I realized that I had just deposited around half of what I already had in my bank account, and if that transaction didn’t go through, paying rent was going to prove difficult. The ATM gave me a receipt that had a phone number to call during normal business hours or I could visit a branch to try to resolve this problem, but it was no longer business hours and the next day would be devoid of business hours as everyone who worked at Chase would be shoving fistfulls of mashed potatoes into their mouth while watching Packers destroy Lions – which sounds like we have found a way to find nutrition in the meat of jungle cats.

Now I sit with hot air molecules masquerading as cooler air molecules by moving quickly at my face surrounding me, and I need to go to the bank and fix this grown up vending machine error. But I’m scared. I want to go to the bank so that the voice I talk to has a face that can see the pain on my face as I explain the necessity of the money I lost in staying in my apartment, but what if this poop I’ve been waiting for all day finally decides to mount its escape while I discuss my predicament? I’ll be in that bathroom for hours waiting for the turkey, potatoes, cranberry sauce, stuffing, sweet potato/curry noodle kugel, pecan and apple pie (which one do you think I brought to the table? I’ll give you a hint: There are only 350 Indian Jews in America and I like to be in the minority) to find its way to its new home of the toilet while my stomach retreats back to its normal size. That’ll be embarrassing.

Horny, Hungry, Lonely

Bacon Infused Tofu

I’m sitting in my apartment eating leftovers from dinner last night. Last night I made a dish with Israeli Cous-Cous, Sweet Potato, tofu, peppers and onions, and bananas and the entire spice rack emphasis on the curry. It’s delish. If you’ve never had bananas and curry, you’ve never lived. The problem is that it is just as good cold. I sit hear eating it wishing that someone would come over and be hungry so that I could share my amazing invention with them. Instead I will sit typing into my computer hoping that the internet provides the friendship that allows me to share my food creations.

The other night I made Bacon infused tofu. With mushrooms and onions and love. I put that on my agave fried corn tortillas that had been smeared in Wasabi Mayo. It was also delicious. But entirely eaten by me.

I need a girlfriend. Not because I need to ejaculate into something. (My trash can serves a purpose). And not because I need to cuddle and talk about my feelings with someone (My computer serves a purpose). Instead its because I need the affirmation that my kitchen adventures are not fruitless (pun very much intended) and that I have an incredible ability to make my stove into the setting for a beautiful misadventure. Somebody besides me needs to love my cooking. It’s so good.