My George Foreman grill no longer works, so I’m forced to go back in time and cook food like a savage…on the stove. I knew there was a reason why I hate stove cooking, but I couldn’t remember it. To save time, I heated the olive oil on high. But, I forgot to lower the flame before I stuck the chicken in. Immediately, and I mean IMMEDIATELY, the oil start bursting into little bombs of pain. It was so out of control that I had a slight concern over the oil spilling into the flame and causing a fire. But, besides that, those little balls of pain hurt when they hit your arm and face. So as I’m trying to dive back into ground zero to lower the flame, I notice that my suits and dress shirts are dangerously close to the stove (I had moved the rack the other day to find a pair of sweat pants…that’s an entirely different embarrassing story). Since I never ever want to buy another suit again, I decide to ignore the pain of scorching oil and move the rack. But, I had just touched raw chicken, so I couldn’t use my left hand. I try moving it with my right hand, and the entire thing starts to collapse. Now I’m hanging onto the remains of the makeshift closet with one hand, holding my raw chicken infested hand up away from me, and having oil burn into my flesh.

I honestly didn’t know what to do. I couldn’t figure out what the lesser of two evils was. The closet was actually falling into another one, and if they both went down, it would be hours of work. On the other hand, the oil was really hurting. The time it took me to decide proves once and for all that I’m not good in a crisis. In the end, I let the clothes go first. Luckily, it wasn’t “that” hard to put it back together, and the clothes don’t look that messed up.

Lunch, of course, is ruined.