"I’m a pathologist, which means that I run the lab, and I’m continually shocked by all the unnecessary lab work that comes my way. Doctors have to find something wrong with you, because preventative measures aren’t sexy. They know that you’re more likely to appreciate them if they tell you something’s wrong, than if they tell you to stop drinking 40 oz sodas."
Normality is a paved road: It’s comfortable to walk, but no flowers grow on it. — Vincent van Gogh (via acrylicalchemy)
Amy Winehouse never really left us…
"It constantly depresses the shit out of me that we have to die."
I second that…
It is alledged, according to witnesses in the trial, that Max Clifford has a ‘tiny and useless’ penis.
Omelettes hold enormous power over me.
Simultaneously, they are a personal totem of being a real adult and an eggy albatross around my neck.
Omelettes seem to be one of those dishes people who can cook assume are an easy gateway dish for people who live in mortal fear of any method more complex than 3 minutes in the microwave, stir, 3 minutes again in the microwave.
They’re not easy. For many reasons:
1. Did you know eggs go bad even if you keep them in the fridge? They do. How can you cook an omelettes with weird, semi frozen, eggs?
2. You have to flip an omelette about five times a minute because otherwise they go black on one side and are still raw on the other.
3. You think you’re meant to put stuff inside an omelette while you’re cooking it?
Wrong.Eggs aren’t glue, they don’t magically weld everything together. You’ve now got islands of carrot or mushroom or Tesco Value ham floating on a sea of uncooked egg.
4. You need to cook it on a gas hob but they took away your gas because you kept sticking your head in the oven during that particularly unhappy Christmas period.
It looks like you’ll have to go back to standing in front of an open microwave.
5. Omelettes are horrible.
Even on that rare occasion when you’ve managed to beat the odds and make one which looks sort of like Nigella’s, you’re left with the soul destroying task of eating a big plate of chicken embryos cooked in the least appetising way imaginable, spun around in a pan and then folded over like dirty sheets.
They’re difficult, they taste of nothing, and they’re a constant reminder of my failings in life.
"My favorite moment is any time that a kid looks at me, and I can tell from the look in his eye that he wants to be a musician. Yesterday I gave a drumstick to a kid with a mohawk, and from the excitement in his face, I could tell that he’d never need drugs and alcohol as long as he could play music."