If we're friends or I've ever been drunk with you, I've probably asked you over for a chicken dinner. Like most of my invitations, it wasn't genuine. I mean well but I lack follow-through. The idea of cleaning my house for company seems pointless, but I'm too anal to have anyone in my house when it's this dirty. As soon as I can pay my cat to do the massive pile of laundry in the middle of my apartment, we'll have that chicken dinner. Just because I'm too lazy to make you a chicken dinner, doesn't mean I'm too lazy to make myself one. It only means more chicken for me. Yeah, the secret's out - I don't always throw the fabulous dinner parties my blog would like you to believe I do.
My plus-one doesn't do meat, so when the cat's away this mouse plays....and eats a whole bunch of roasted meat. Truthfully, I barely do meat these days either, but when I feel like indulging, I buy the cheapest whole chicken I can find. I like my meat chock full of god-only-knows what contaminates the USDA thinks are fit for human consumption. When I see "reduced for quick sale" my mouth just waters. Part of the thrill of being a carnivore is knowing how appalling factory-farming is, but eating it anyway. This here is America damnit.
