By Gwyneth Doland
You think you eat out too often? Ha! I met a woman the other night who told me that she lived in her current place for months before setting the oven on fire—by turning it on with the instruction booklet still resting on the top rack. Now I don't feel so guilty for cooking as rarely as I do. Yes, it's true: I use my oven as often as I vacuum. (Was that not clear? It's not often.) Why cook when my phone is full of hungry friends who will gladly meet me at [insert name of charming ethnic eatery here] in half an hour? I'm single and I'm a Leo, so why would I waste time whipping up a minor masterpiece when no one will applaud? As a tree's unwitnessed fall makes no sound, a chef's most savory creation is wasted without a tongue to tell the tale of it. Or something like that. The truth is that being your own worst critic makes for some pretty miserable dinners. So, like the rest of you, I eat out nearly every night. The rest of the time, I exhume decomposing creatures from their Styrofoam sarcophagi and reheat, until they once again resemble wild boar chops and chicken curries. I use the stove to heat up water for the dog's dinner. He likes it with a little gravy, you know, and he's awfully appreciative.
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