masterofmidgets (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
masterofmidgets) wrote2009-02-09 06:11 pm
masterofmidgets) wrote2009-02-09 06:11 pm
An Epic For The Modern Age?
There comes a time in every man's woman's life when she must do battle against a foe so vicious, so terrible, that the very thought of it makes her tremble in her boots; if she rises victorious from this battle, only then may she call herself a true warrior.
Today I did battle against just such a foe: my refrigerator.
Now, several times recently when I have, offhand, mentioned my fridge and the fear it inspires me, the people I was talking to expressed disbelief that it could be all that. "Surely," they say, "When you say it has months-old leftovers in it, you are using a form of hyperbole or exaggeration to impress upon us the untidy state of your vegetable drawer." Oh, how I wish that were so.
But no. When I say months-old leftovers, what I mean is that the sole contents of my fridge for the last 5-odd months has been two take-out boxes, containing within them the last mortal remains of a meal that was eaten on September 21st. When I endeavor to fail at house-keeping, I really and truly fail. Many times have I thought of cleaning it out, only to realize that if, as I suspected, the leftovers had in fact achieved sentience and mobility, opening the door would unleash a terror unto the world, or at least the part of the world that is the Bay Area.
But today I said no more, and I took arms against the terror of the fridge and the Leftovers That Should Not Be. And by arms I mean a ziploc bag, several plastic grocery bags, and a can of lysol, by which means I subdued the take-out boxes until I could dispose of the corpses in The Rubbish Bin Outside Ujamaa. Frankly I was a bit disappointed; the smell was most odorous and foul, certainly, but I expected the leftovers to put up much more of a fight.
In any case, I emerged triumphant, and this weekend I'm going to Trader Joe's and buying the fuck out some fancy cheese and shit to celebrate having a fridge again.
Today I did battle against just such a foe: my refrigerator.
Now, several times recently when I have, offhand, mentioned my fridge and the fear it inspires me, the people I was talking to expressed disbelief that it could be all that. "Surely," they say, "When you say it has months-old leftovers in it, you are using a form of hyperbole or exaggeration to impress upon us the untidy state of your vegetable drawer." Oh, how I wish that were so.
But no. When I say months-old leftovers, what I mean is that the sole contents of my fridge for the last 5-odd months has been two take-out boxes, containing within them the last mortal remains of a meal that was eaten on September 21st. When I endeavor to fail at house-keeping, I really and truly fail. Many times have I thought of cleaning it out, only to realize that if, as I suspected, the leftovers had in fact achieved sentience and mobility, opening the door would unleash a terror unto the world, or at least the part of the world that is the Bay Area.
But today I said no more, and I took arms against the terror of the fridge and the Leftovers That Should Not Be. And by arms I mean a ziploc bag, several plastic grocery bags, and a can of lysol, by which means I subdued the take-out boxes until I could dispose of the corpses in The Rubbish Bin Outside Ujamaa. Frankly I was a bit disappointed; the smell was most odorous and foul, certainly, but I expected the leftovers to put up much more of a fight.
In any case, I emerged triumphant, and this weekend I'm going to Trader Joe's and buying the fuck out some fancy cheese and shit to celebrate having a fridge again.