I live to serve, so I will tell you this now, lest you were considering doing something similar:

Making tacos for one is depressing.

You needn’t thank me, your tear tinged eyes and awed expression are thanks enough.

It turns out, in fact, that making anything for one is depressing. Observe:

.: manicotti for one: depressing
.: caesar salad for one: depressing
.: mandarin beef for one: depressing
.: tuna casserole for one: depressing, and just a tad pathetic

To combat this wave of depression, I have been doing the only logical thing: eating out practicing ritualistic starvation.

I kid, I kid. There’s nothing ritualistic about it.

It is interesting, actually, the incredible drop in motivation and creativity that comes with losing someone to cook for. It’s a fairly powerful miracle that I even use plates for the meals I do make. And let’s not even talk about if I sit properly at my “dining room” table, or slovenly in front of my huge, mid-life crisis brought on by failed relationship, 46″ widescreen TV. (HINT: it’s the TV)

You’d think I’d be used to it, considering the disproportionate frequency in which I find myself in situations such as these. ‘Cause I’m a hustler baby. Yes yes, a hustler.

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