I have a friend who is in the telecom business. He visits me at the house to get free cooking lessons. His one hobby is to annoy and confuse other people. His name is JMV, short for Julius May Virus. This missive is in honor (horror?) of him.
Anyway, during one of those cooking disasters, JMV was sitting on my kitchen counter going on and on about our respective boring lives when suddenly he pipes up, "What's with Nessy and all the other women who can cook? What do they have that we don't? It's not like it's written in the chickenomics recipe book." Nessy, by the way, is the sister of Janice. She does cook up a storm, but I digress.
In that statement of his, JMV was hinting subtly about how bad a cook I am so he goes and shows me an example of a real gourmet, coining that "chickenomics" word in the process. Meanwhile, the eyes at the back of my head could see that not only was JMV not helping, he has both feet (with shoes on) perched on top of my VERY CLEAN, GERM-FREE counter. He was watching me work in rapt admiration (or was it murderous anticipation) for the bad meal that lay ahead. Ay, what can I say, most of my friends like being mean to one another so I'm blissfully unaffected, beyond anything and everything else they have to say.
So I faced him and pointed out that he's not helping, and proceeded to give a long littany on how clueless he is in the kitchen. He wants to go independent for the longest time, mind you, and I am just wondering what mealtime is going to be like for him when he realizes that dream. At this point JMV gives me a helpless shrug, ala que sera, sera.
And I am boring you into a coma again. So much for small talk. I guess this is what happens when you are in limbo, suspended in time and space, not knowing what you're going to do tomorrow when all your friends are gone and there's noone to annoy you anymore. Which is why I'm going to whine some more about the sordid state of affairs called 'getting a life out of this country' in the paragraphs that would follow.
Hah. You wish.
Good day to you.
Friday, 31 January 2003
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