I don’t like takeaway anymore

I would enjoy a takeaway if I knew I could go to the restaurant itself if I really wanted to. I would enjoy a takeaway if I knew I was just being lazy. Lazy by choice. Deprived from the possibility of entering the space and sit down on a bar seat, I feel like a fool having the food on my bed. Like, what’s the point? What’s the point of bringing this lukewarm pizza onto a plate far too small to contain it whole, and sprinkle crumbled crust all over the cover duvet? I don’t know where to put the lid of the smoked bbq dipping container, and it will probably stain the fabric without me noticing. Last time the delivery guy just dropped his entire bag on the floor, and I had to rummage through it to find my pizza box thinking wtf am I doing with my life? The capers were not caper berries as usual, but the small pickled one delicious with skate wing, not with my pizza. Salt on salt, a bit too intense on top of the already salted anchovies. That wasn’t what I expected. But come on, you’re eating a pizza on your bed, watching Normal People on BBC iPlayer, your expectations can’t be that high, and you can’t complain about capers while this guy is obviously struggling with his bag full of food as he puts it directly on your doorstep. Let me pinpoint something here, I agree you like cheese, I like cheese too, we all do, but craving for cheese is not an excuse to order that cheeseburger filled with a steak hâché. Remember when you ate that out of date frozen one and you thought you’d die in your Parisian flat, or catch an uncanny virus and still die in your Parisian flat. You even called the poison control centre and they told you to wait forty-eight hours. At the end I didn’t die but I should definitely discard steak hâché from my life. Eventually I just gave up pretending to enjoy soggy bun and mushy fries delivered with too much packaging, and I decided to become a grown up, making my own quite enjoyable burger with halloumi and lot of vegan mayonnaise mixed with a copious amount of sriracha. The fries I could find at the shop are definitely the one I despise, the large one, tasting like wet cardboard, but at least it’s my fries that I hate. Okay, I could also do my own fries from cut potatoes, but I can’t honestly come from takeaway to make my own fries. I don’t have a fryer anyway. And let’s be honest about it, I don’t want to risk burning my face with some jumping cooking oil from the saucepan just for some hand-cut fries. This is not the plan. This is not my plan.

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