I love MasterChef. This is not a secret. For a fair portion of the year, my favourite time of day is MasterChef time. The glorious combination of cooking and reality appeals to some fundamental part of my identity as a TV viewer. Gosh darn do I love MasterChef.
So I was even more horrified than the average person to see the new promo. Every time someone mentions it on Twitter, my only response is to desperately tweet WHHHHHHHHHY?! at them in caps. I am distraught. I keep beating my head against things. The security and comfort of MasterChef time is crumbling under my feet.
Dear Temporary I.T. Guy,
We could have been friends. We could have been buddies. When you came to my work to help Original I.T. Guy (presumably with I.T. stuff) I thought to myself, “This guy seems fun. We should hang out.“
I’m cool, Temporary I.T. guy! I’m fun! I like things! I am already friends with Original I.T. Guy; we send each other funny photos of dogs and computer fails. We laugh together about our colleagues who don’t know things about computers. I know things about computers, I promise. Not enough to have an I.T degree, but at least enough to be friends with Original I.T Guy. Enough to be friends with you.
I wouldn’t say I’m resigned to this fate. I chose it out of a line up of Married With Children, Happily Dating, Casual Open Relationship and Bitterly Divorced.
I’m not averse to The Relationship; in fact I’m considerably more open to it than to consuming ricotta at any given time. Growing old with someone sounds nice, in as much as changing adult diapers, putting in false teeth and crossing Abbey Road with a Zimmer frame might be nice experiences to share with a significant other. But I’d rather do it alone. Or as alone as possible.
I’ve always loved sluts.
I’m not sure if this is nature or nurture, as I was raised with a plethora of female role models whose ‘empowerment’ was predominantly derived from their sexuality. Being born in the early 90s, I experienced the world post-sexual revolution, mid third-wave feminism, all in full-colour through a somewhat grainy television screen.
So recently, sitting in the backseat of a black metal-blasting Ford of an old friend of my guy-friend, the muscle-shirted, profanity-laden driver was musing on the mysteries of love and courtship and the irreconcilable nature of the modern wacky free-thinking woman (AKA he was bitching about chicks okay) when he declared that he much preferred women who didn’t wear makeup over those who did. To wit: ‘I don’t understand why they wear that shit on their face anyway.’ (This $36 lipstick made by MAC — a top-name brand so renowned that it was referenced in TLC’s ‘Unpretty’ — is not shit, you dick.)
After fluffing around in an Arts degree in 2012, I finally abandoned the foolhardy idea that an English major will somehow make me employable, hung up my harem pants, tamed my dreadlocks (jkz that shit’s rank) and decided to buckle down and enrol in Law. However, little did I know that signing up for this course would earn me a one-way ticket to Judgement City, mostly centred around the premise that after five and a half years in a Law degree I will have sold my soul to Beelzebub and have my moral compass confiscated in the first year.