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I figured that it’s about time I learn how to cook a certain dish, so I said that I’d make the seafood paella, which we will have for Christmas dinner tonight. My mom insisted that I cook it this morning while the crab and the prawns and the shrimp were still fresh from the market. It was only 10 a.m. and my brain wasn’t quite awake yet. Thus, “Lauren making the paella” ended up being Lauren poking at the seafood with a spatula, Lauren shuddering with horror at the squid tentacles, and Lauren watching in amusement as the prawns turn from dark blue to orange–while the maids did the actual work.

If this were the 19th century nobody would want to marry me because I’m simply too lazy to take the effort to make an actual dish from scratch. I am so not a domestic woman. I have never cooked for anyone in my life. Why should I, anyway? Just because social norms say that women have to be good in the kitchen doesn’t mean that I ought to don an apron and unleash my culinary skillz at every visitor that sets foot in the house. Admittedly, I do feel a lot less like a woman because I can’t cook for shit. I don’t like kids, either. I suppose this womanly impotence that I’m going through right now is a lot like what men feel when their psycho ex-girlfriends cut their balls off in their sleep.

Merry Christmas, everyone.