Alternate titles for this post included “How I tried to give myself pneumonia,” “I should compile a list of things I won’t do for food,” and “How I almost got murdered three times, but one of those times was by a puddle.”
But first, a bit of backstory:
I stepped out of class to see that another rainstorm had begun, and even though I considered grabbing my umbrella before class, I had decided against it, because what were the odds it was going to rain, anyways? So I had to sprint back to my dorm amongst raindrops so big and cold they were just a step below hail, praying my notes wouldn’t get completely ruined. You’d think that would’ve been enough for me, but I’d already made dinner for myself three nights in a row, and I was pretty sick of all of my meager options, so I decided to walk downtown to my favorite local restaurant.
You also would think that I would’ve realized this was a bad idea when I stepped outside onto my balcony, and immediately sank my foot in a three-inch puddle that I’m pretty sure wasn’t there twenty minutes earlier when I went inside. A puddle I could’ve easily avoided if the combination of rain and night hadn’t reduced my visibility down to about nothing. I then realized that given my immune system and the number of nasty illnesses floating around campus, this little trip was almost guaranteed to leave me bedridden for at least a day or two.
Then I thought to myself, very eloquently, YOLO.
And then I thought I should probably bring up my need to take pointless risks when I’m depressed to my therapist.
So I set off downtown, trying not to drown or step in any other massive puddles. There was construction on my normal route, so I ended up having to backtrack a block or two to avoid it, but finally I made it to the shop. I began making my way back home along the slightly sketchier route, past a few bars where, even in the pouring rain, people still hung around outside. I passed in front of a very tall, very buff man who was also out walking, before realizing that I now couldn’t keep an eye on him. He began following me (which, admittedly, wasn’t all that big of a surprise, seeing as we were both going in the same direction to begin with), and I figured it would be just my luck to get murdered because I put myself into a completely avoidable situation only after I’d paid for a meal I’d never get to eat. But then he turned into a bar and I turned the corner and I was free to throw myself into the next completely avoidable situation.
Instead of taking the same route I’d taken a dozen times before, I decided to take an early turn that I’d hoped would allow me to walk back through campus, rather than along the street. This, of course, was the completely wrong choice to make, and I ended up in a residential area even creepier than the street before, lit by exactly two streetlights. One of which went out as I walked under it.
Me: “Just kill me now.”
Then I thought maybe that wasn’t the best thing to say on a dimly-lit road at night, right next to a very convenient body-dumping location.
Me: “Just kidding. Please don’t kill me.”
I picked up the pace as the lights from the campus came in sight, and nearly had a heart attack when I finally noticed a) there was a car parked under the other street light, within spitting distance and b) there was a person in the car. I wish I could say whether or not they were watching me and/or judging me for talking out loud to seemingly no one, but at that point I was speed-walking and half-hiding behind my umbrella, trying to enact the “if I can’t see you, you can’t see me” rule commonly employed by three-year-olds.
I made it back on campus, only to slip and almost fall in a puddle, which was guaranteed to make me spill my food and probably break my face. But I survived, and finally, I made it home.
…and promptly discovered the fork I’d haphazardly stuffed in the to-go box had poked a hole in the top of my pot pie, and had bled it of all its sauce. I then concluded that the universe probably didn’t want me to eat the pie.
And then I ate it, anyways.
The moral of this story is that there’s quite a lot I will do for good food, including getting almost murdered. Also, that my definition of “almost murdered” is probably grossly different from everyone else’s, and so if this story was a letdown, I apologize. If it makes you feel better, this might help you avoid making my same mistakes. And by that I mean the true moral of this story is to not shove forks in to-go boxes if you don’t want holes in your food, because dry pot pie is a disappointment. It’s still good enough to be worthwhile, though. Either that, or I was hungry enough that just about anything would’ve tasted good.
Which meant that I could’ve just made myself pasta at home, anyways.
Touché, universe. Touché.
I have no idea what I'm doing.