I have come to a realization. I hate romance movies. Somehow I have reverted to that elementary school state where watching people kiss makes my shoulders try to crawl off my arms. In person, in public, in movies, whatever, I kind of want to go, "Ew. Icky. Get a room." I don't want to watch Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant fall in love. Clearly, something is very very wrong.
Today, I did the domestic thing. I cleaned things. I removed clothes and stuffed animals and a tupperware full of a sticky goo that, until it reached the Hilo climate, was a large pile of Jolly Ranchers that I received for my sixteenth birthday. I cleared my closet of things that I hope that I will continue not to want for awhile. Then, I cooked things. I made muffins for breakfast, both chocolate chip and raisin bran. For lunch I made veggie burgers with English muffin buns, broccoli, and oranges. A perfect iron-vitamin c combination. For dinner my dad bought a roasted chicken, and I made mashed potatoes, roast carrots, and sauteed vegetables, and a pretending-to-be-chicken patty for myself.
I combat boredom by cooking things. I don't know if this is healthy, but clearly, I am a domestic goddess.
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