the past few days have been spent reliving the life of the ill fated servant, quite literally. cooking, washing, cleaning, you name it, this poor unfortunate, forced to be subservient, coolie has done it, with physical evidence of painful blisters and fugly bruises as proof of this verbose rant.
in actuality, am not at all adverse to a day's of hard work, be it paid or pro bono, even though it is taken into account, without shame at that, monetary or any other sort of benefit would be a welcomed bonus.
cooking up a storm and making a mess of the kitchen is, without a doubt, therapeutic, not. the aftermath of a filthy and sticky mess is detestably abdominable, not to mention the final product could well end up as an anticlimatic chomp that leaves much to be desired in terms of taste and appearance and ought to be irrefutably condemned to the bone yard.
in return, all the thanks that ever comes back is a big fat whack in the gut about my ineptitude. talk about all that work, effort and time down the drain. Incontestably, the bare naked truth is that really am no crackerjack at handling a saucepan and spatula.
in truth, am more intrinsically adept at being the bull in the china shop, so "why bother?" one might ask. trust me, that disturbing question incommodiously afflicts me to no end too. my girlfriend would attribute it to one thing without question, karma.
come the day my fanaticism at trying to perfect the inexecutable act of serving up a three star michelin standard, minimum for the record, bonne bouche drives me up and over the wall into absolute delirium, a new madhatter of dodoland will be born...
and fritter away frivolously all day long... having a tea party with me, myself and i...