Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Success in Getting Fourthmeal Should be Worth at Least a Medal

It's nearly 1 AM and like every other teenager up this late at night, I'm starving for fourthmeal. Still living with my family (because I'm too young to legally live on my own), obtaining this 'fourthmeal' is one hell of an adventure. Getting out of my room is the first goal. No, my room isn't a huge mess, but my room is next to the hallway where my younger brother's overly-affectionate puppy waits for me, in the process usually having one or more 'accidents on the floor'. It's getting to the point that I'm pretty sure this dog is just out to get me. At 1am, I sneak out in the hall, all the while trying to be silent. Another obstacle that presents itself only in the deep of night is the fact that most people are easily woken up by bursts of light. In order to get through the hall around my younger brother's puppy's presents, but I have to do so in the dark, as to not wake up sleeping relatives.

So far, to recap, my mission includes exiting the room, avoiding puppy shit. Crossing the hall to close the doors to my relatives room, avoiding puppy shit. Turning on the light so on the way back up, once I've reached my target, I don't kill myself falling in a puddle of puppy shit. The next goal is to go downstairs and find something to eat. Of course this is where I realize night after night that there are about seven million different potential ingredients in the kitchen, but there is not one quick, decent tasting recipe to combine any of them in any sort of logical way. This leaves only room for illogical combinations of food. Once I've butchered some classical recipe I may or may not have once seen on the food network, I start returning upstairs. With meal and beverage, I normally don't have a free hand, which means turning off all of the lights I've passed on my way up with my elbow.

Finally, I'm back in front of my room, however in order to keep a pile of puppy shit from infiltrating my bedroom, I close the door firmly. It cannot be kicked or shoved open, I know. Instead, I transform into the world's largest successful contortionist, managing to twist myself so I can turn off the hall light, balance my food, open the door with a complete twist of the knob, all while avoiding puppy shit. Once in, I quickly dump all of the food, close the door and get back to whatever load of late night crap I was watching before I went to grab snacks.

I'm sorry, but I would like to see Mike Phelps beat the sort of times I've gotten. Chicken parm in five minutes flat? Done.

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