SELFABSORBED.ME

Dear Christmas Cookbook Gift,

Wow it was such a surprise when I opened you. I was so excited at first looking at the packaging thinking I was finally getting a signed copy of 'Where I Came From'. But then I disocvered you, an entire book, filled with Betty Crocker's best.

Now I don't know who this Betty woman is. But I do know one thing. She seems like a pretty selfish bitch to me. Telling me all about having to make "torts" and "cakes" and "boiling water." Making me feel like I am the kind of woman who should invest my time and energy into things like "baking" . Well Betty, let me tell you, the more you try and tell me how to bake, the more I realize I am going to figure out exactly which book store you came from so I can return your red colored ass and get something more useful, such as a book on how to kill myself with rubber bands.

The problem is Betty, your instructional guides require me to do things that I refuse to do on a normal day, things such as 'go to the grocery store'... 'make lists'... 'be prepared'....I consider showing up to my ex boyfriend's house fully sedated on percocets, 'being prepared'.

I tried to make your lemon bunt cake only once and I was halfway through writing down 'lemon' when I realized, what am I doing? I bake the way Anna Nicole solves math equations in Heaven....pretty much never. And I refuse to feel pressure just because a woman named 'Betty' tells me to go do so. I don't even like the name Betty. I knew a Betty once and she was the biggest cunt I'd ever met. So excuse me Betty if I don't feel like ripping open your magical paper pages and discovering just one more thing I have failed at learning in life. You know who used to cook? Dinosaurs. Dinosaur wives used to cook along with people in the BC era and women with names like 'Pearl'. So if you don't mind Betty, I am going to go order myself a nice plate of California rolls from Haru, right after I go give you to some poor homeless kid of the street who needs a cook book way more than I.