Tonight, as we were coincidentally preparing our dinners at the same time, one of my flatmates read me a rather impressive lecture about how the rarity of red meat in my diet (I'm not a vegetarian, I just can't be arsed to take the time to cook meat) meant I wasn't getting enough iron, and I could become anemic, and I should Do Something About It. And then eyed my pasta very skeptically, as if psychically sensing its anguish at not having meat or possibly robust iron-rich vegetables like spinach added to it. And SHE'S not even the flatmate who's studying to be a nutritionist.
I knew there was a reason I normally don't cook dinner 'til after 9pm, when the rest of my flatmates are unlikely to be in the kitchen.
Seriously, yo. I realize that things like this are probably the reason this girl is 40lbs lighter than I am, but still. I barely even know her. My food. My life. I don't tell her that she's scarily skinny and should eat more, do I?
Ah, fuck it. I'm going to eat some chocolate now. So neener.
I knew there was a reason I normally don't cook dinner 'til after 9pm, when the rest of my flatmates are unlikely to be in the kitchen.
Seriously, yo. I realize that things like this are probably the reason this girl is 40lbs lighter than I am, but still. I barely even know her. My food. My life. I don't tell her that she's scarily skinny and should eat more, do I?
Ah, fuck it. I'm going to eat some chocolate now. So neener.