This may be the lack of calories talking. Or the lack of adequate beer consumption. Maybe it’s the sore pecs and hamstrings. Maybe I’m just in a hungry, in a pissy mood, and want to bitch. But for real, fuck the janky chinese restaurant down the road.
My husband grew up getting take out from the place, they’re less than six blocks away, and he’s been on this chinese food kick lately. Honestly, their food is mediocre on it’s best days. The chicken is gristle and rubber, and most of every thing I have ever ordered has been greasy and overcooked. This is a place you go if you want “the worst leftovers in Madison.”
But my husband loves it and tonight I caved and they screwed me.
No, I didn’t check the bag before I left. Yes, I could totally pack it up and go back and demand they fix it. But you know what. I’m crabby. I’m tired. I didn’t even want it in the first place. He’s craving it, I’m like “fine, I’ll get some fried rice, that sounds good actually.” I get home and I have soggy Crab Rangoons.
I fucking LOATH Crab Rangoons. If I wanted fried cream cheese and fake crab– You know what, not even worth the thought. I don’t ever want fried cream cheese and fake crab. I have never and will never understand the appeal of fake crab, no less fried into a greasy, soggy lump.
So now he’s gaming with the boys, eating his General Tso’s and I’m seething on the internet, debating what I can concoct out of my fridge to get through the night without killing someone.
Weigh-in: 174.6 (Gastrointestinal bugs will do a favor for the scale)