delicious juice dot com: unapologetically inappropriate

I know I said I was going for an Angry Lunch, but I didn’t actually require any bloodshed.

I’ve had a rough morning at work, so I opted to get my favourite sandwich* for lunch. My Angry didn’t really go away even with the thought of deliciousness because people are stupid (hey, rich tourist lady with the multiple Holt Renfrew bags in the crazy long lunch hour line up, letting your kid stand in the middle of the narrow walkway blocking traffic while you take up all the room with your huge stroller and then proceed to ask what’s on the menu and what’s in each item? FUCK YOU), but I placed my order and stood back to wait for my food to be ready. I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Then there was more waiting, and I was starting to pout a little when they realized that I hadn’t received my food yet. The kitchen manager came over to apologize and to let me know what happened:

Apparently someone was making my lunch (with extra deliciousness) when he SLICED HIS HAND WIDE OPEN and bled all over the universe. In the rush to get himself some badly needed first aid, he forgot to tell someone what he was in the middle of doing – so my order was forgotten. Manager man was full of apologies, which I didn’t need – my lunch made someone bleed! After reassuring me the guy was okay, he insisted on giving me some dessert for my trouble. I told him to pick something for me, and he gave me this:

i am not one to turn down free things with raspberries on the top

It’s panna cotta with raspberry goo on top, in a REALLY COOL TWISTY CUP. I am almost more excited about the cup than I am the delicious goo inside, but overall I am pretty pleased with the outcome.

Um, and I feel bad for the guy who sliced himself open.

*: yeah, I have a favourite sandwich now. I try not to talk about it, given my rage towards all other sandwiches – but it’s cool; this sandwich is kind of like having a black friend so clearly I can’t be racist.

Well, I’m never going to sleep well again.

Ed and I did some cleaning on Saturday to prepare for our houseguest (my American, Chris). I wasn’t really able to do much what with my bubonic plague, but I managed to do a few chores before collapsing in an ungainly heap of angst and mucus. We straightened and vacuumed and recycled and hid all the dildos, and I did laundry. Laundry was really the big “must do” of the day, because Captain Trips causes you to secrete nasty fluids in your sleep and things were starting to get a little gummy*, so I stripped the bed and set out to wash those germs right out of my sheets. Unfortunately, Ed had to help me get the duvet cover off my blanket .. and then the world ended.

My blanket was in rough shape – I know this. It was a down comforter I had gotten as a Christmas gift from my future mother-in-law way back when Ed and I first started dating – I think it was 1998 or so. It was the most awesome, perfectest comforter in the entire world: light in the summer, warm in the winter, smelled like kittens and sunshine, and was cosy as all get out. I’d tried several times over the years to replace it with something newer because it was getting pretty ratty, but every single comforter bought as a possible successor was terrible and I would inevitably start using my favourite blanket again.

Unfortunately, “rough shape” was being a little kind – it was falling apart, and barely held together by the external duvet cover that kept most of the feathers inside. When I opened it up on Saturday to put it in the washer, a blizzard of down came billowing out; significant snowdrifts formed in the freshly vacuumed hallway and beyond. If Ed hates anything at all, it’s things that end up on the floor .. and the lifeblood of my nighttime comfort sent him flying into a rage** that would not be quenched with a mere broom; he needed vengeance. Knowing that I wasn’t all there in the head what with my raging Porphyric Hemophilia, Ed leapt to take advantage of my addled state:

“It’s time for that blanket to go.”

I looked around the feathery room, brushing several clumps of down out of my hair. “What are you talking about? My blanket is awesome.”

“No, it’s not. It’s falling apart and there’s barely any filling left and LOOK AT THIS MESS ALL OVER MY CLEAN FLOOR!”

I was too tired, sick and weak to argue. I knew he was right, even though I didn’t want to admit it (if I tell him he is right too often, he is impossible to deal with). I closed my eyes (because everything was spinning), and said “fine. Do it. Do it now, before I change my mind.”

By the time I opened my eyes again (I may have blacked out – I was really quite sick), my comforter was gone and every trace that it ever existed gone with it. It was the end: the end of comfort, of sleep, of making forts and burying myself in an avalanche of pillows. The end of good times in bed that don’t involve penetration; the end of secret naps after work wrapped in delicious never-ending comfort. It’s over. I will never get a good night’s sleep again. My Flood Parasite is kicking my ass, and SLEEPING SUCKS NOW. Thanks a lot, Ed. When did you decide you hated me?

EVERYTHING IS DIFFICULT and my head hurts. I would like to be better now, please!

*: that was a really gross sentence

**: to be fair, Ed flying into a rage is “mildly annoyed” for most people. the man does not flap.