THIS WEEK, I'm not going to tell you about what I did or where I went, because it really doesn't matter. The real story lies in what I did when I got home. No, this isn't going to be a sordid tale of post-bar sex or some over-the-top description of a late-night party. This is a mildly hazy story about a man, his refrigerator, and his drunken attempt to feed himself. The following was pieced together using actual memory and a scientific review of the evidence found the morning after.
So apparently I was hungry when I got home last night. I'd had a busy day and I was attempting to sustain life on a banana and a small sandwich I'd inhaled on my way home from visiting family. Hardly a good drinking base, but again, this is a story about my gluttony, not my alcoholism. Please try to stay focused. I admit, a story about me fatting out after an evening of drinks isn't really all that interesting. But learning what I ate, how I prepared it, and what I had to go through to get it is. Trust me: I'm not proud of this behavior, but I'm hoping I'm not alone in my experiences. Fingers crossed.
I think I made eggs last night. Or maybe I tried to bake a cake? On top of the stove this morning is a frying pan, a rectangular bread pan (yeah, I own one of those), an empty egg carton, and an open half-gallon of milk. Upon further inspection of the evidence (an early-morning burp that produces no evidence of egg), I find myself leaning toward cake. But then it occurs to me that, in my drunken state, cooking or baking time would've been a deterrent, so I scrap both possibilities and do my best to remember ... while still trying to acclimate to a headache I'm certain will take my life.
Solving this mystery is made more challenging by the fact that at the moment, I have nothing in the house to eat. I remember trying to make a sandwich wrap using some tortillas I had in my bread box (yeah, I know, I have one of those, too), but I had no fillings to put in it. Hold on: now I remember. I made a ketchup sandwich. More accurately, a ketchup wrap. If I tell you I heated it up in the microwave, does that make it any less disgusting? Worse, right? Yeah, I was afraid of that.
But even more horrifying than a heated bread tube full of condiment is the Pop-Tart wrapper sitting empty and innocent in the middle of my kitchen's island. No big deal, right? So I had a couple of Pop-Tarts to wash down the Heinz. Actually, I only had one. The same one I deemed too stale for human consumption earlier in the day and threw in the trash. That's right: last night I apparently ate my own garbage. Lucky for me, the alcohol content in my blood was so high it probably killed any bacteria on the Pop-Tart. Five-second rule be damned!
So what's the moral of this story? Shit, you got me. Don't eat your garbage? Or maybe it's respect the wonderful red "food" provided to us by tomatoes. Okay, where is the Excedrin? I need to go grocery shopping. @
