So, I get one 'free day' a week and that day is today.
What's a 'free day,' you ask? Well, it's one day during the whole week where I can go nuts and enjoy something I really want to eat. Because during the rest of the week, I have to really watch what I am eating. No sodium, no fried foods, no nothing. It's all juicing and smoothies and brown rice and steamed bullshit vegetables and fish.
I am only able to survive this fucking ordeal by giving myself a free day, something to look forward to. So when my craving for pizza kicks in, I tell myself, Burt. You can have pizza on Sunday. And that works, because I don't feel depressed about depriving myself and cave and stuff two large supreme pizzas in my face in the backseat of my car during lunch. And Sundays, we get pizza. So yay!
This week, my free day is chicken wings.
Good heaven above, is there any more perfect fucking food than chicken wings?
Look at this.
Get in mah belly, you motherfuckers.
They are so fucking good. I like the little wing part better than the drumlette, but I'll take either.
I can eat them every possible way, with any kind of sauce. I like barbecue wings, Buffalo wings, Thai wings, honey mustard wings, salt & pepper wings wings, teriyaki wings, Hawaiian wings. I like plain ole' wings, deep fried or grilled or oven fried. I especially love the Garlic Parmesean kind, because why isn't there more cheesey garlic things in our lives?
So we got up this morning, my BF, Loni Manderson, went about his day as usual. He had a little breakfast. He did some chores around the house. He called his mom. Paid some bills. Played with the dog.
But I have been awake, since 8 a.m., doing absolutely nothing except obsessing about when we are going to get the wings. I have looked at the menu of the chicken wing place about 400 times. I keep pestering Loni—should we order them now? Should we call them now? How about now?
See, I had this great recipe for honey siracha wings with cumin and garlic MMMMMM, but LoniManderson says I work too hard cooking all week and doesn't want me to spend Sunday in the kitchen. Which is fine. BUT NOW I HAVE TO WAIT UNTIL LONI THINKS WE SHOULD WAIT TO EAT UNTIL A LITTLE LATER BECAUSE HE HATES ME OBVIOUSLY.
So Groupthink, should I dump him? And marry the heir of a chicken wing empire and never be wingless again?
This 100,000 word post brought to you by Burt's insatiable craving for chicken wings.
Oh and please for the love of god, don't mainpage this shit, because I am not in the mood to to spend my whole fucking Sunday dismissing a bunch of concern troll idiots rambling on about healthy eating habits or morons who think they are experts on my medical condition because they 'have seen a lot of research' they basically copied and pasted from Wikipedia. I am just not in the mood for your shit, world.
UPDATE: CHICKEN WINGS ARE IN MY MOUTH. CHICKEN WINGS ARE IN MY MOTHERFUCKING MOUTH AND THEY TASTE LIKE ALL THE GOOD.