"I’m a nightmare, a disaster, that's what they'd always say, I'm a lost cause, not a hero, but I'll make it on my own."

Day alone. With just my little sister.

I, being the wild and crazy teenager I am, throw a party. Right?

Hah!

I do not spend my night getting drunk and high like the other half the teenage population. As if I would.

Instead, I am elbow deep in dishwater, my sleeves rolled up. Headbanging to various bands coming out the computer speakers that I temporarily hooked up in the kitchen. While washing dishes.

I hate dishes. I pause for a while to make dinner.

I am a wonderful cook. I am masterful in any part of the kitchen. I could take anything in the kitchen, cook it, and have it come out extraordinary.

I am lying.

I was told by my mother to make chicken. Not that hard. Cut it up, stick it in the oven. Right?

I swear, in further notice to anyone who reads this, if I am ever left alone with raw chicken again, I shall shoot myself in the head before I go within ten feet of it.

It wouldn't come out of the package. I always see my mother make a slit in the plastic and just pull out a piece. Brilliant for her. I had to take the entire plastic off, then literally pry the chicken apart.

Which was freezing cold. And didn't want to cut into pieces. And was gooey and slippery. Honestly, my thumb was numb and bleeding (very slightly) by the end. Now, normally I'm exceedingly good with knives. Apparently the chicken has just decided to turn against me.

Then I stuck it in the oven. Only to bring it out a minute later.

Intelligent me. You have to season it. So I pulled the pepper out. That went well. I placed some salt on it. Then I vaguely heard my mother's voice calling out to me about garlic salt.

I dashed some on. Then some poured out, onto the chicken. Heh, heh. No big deal. I used my right hand to spread it farther from that spot. However, the rest still needed to be seasoned. And I had just touched the raw chicken.

Seasoning with your left hand when you are right-handed is not fun.

Back into the oven. Time to wash more dishes. The phone rang. My uncle was checking up on me. My father's brother. Grr...

I made small talk. I hate small talk. I cut short the conversation, saying I needed to check my chicken.

I turned up my music. "God Must Hate Me" by Simple Plan burst out. I'm so glad my neighbors moved. No worries about loudness.

I washed a big plate and turned to stick it on the drying rack. Which was full of dishes.

"Shit." Idiot that I am, I forgot to put them away. I dry the plate manually and then proceed to put the dishes away before washing more. Not keeping my eye on the time.

Forgetting to have set my timer, knowing that I would forget to check on the chicken.

I check on the chicken, thinking that maybe it's time to turn them over. They are completely white. Whoops. But no damage done. I flip them anyway and stick them back in. This time setting the timer for five minutes. During which I tried to boost my swiftly dropping self esteem by making ramen noodles. Something I can actually do.

I take the chicken out. It's brown on the edges. Erm....oops.

All together, it was ok. It was dry, a little tough, and I had to rip some crispy parts off, but it was ok.

Just a little salty.

Tomorrow I'm making sandwiches. Much safer. No oven involved.

So my day kind of sucked. I washed loads of dishes only to make even more. I have a horrible cough, suspiciously arriving after I sprinking the yard with Sevin dust. On the bright side, that meant last night I had to drink NyQuil to get rid of it long enough that I could get to sleep. And once asleep I slept till about noon.