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An Open Letter to $7 Chinese Food That is Currently Ravaging My Intestines


To the Sons of Bitches this Most Definitely Concerns,


Today I learned that everything I knew about our relationship is a lie. I woke up brimming with excitement at the deliciously complex feast I was going to make myself before I realized I’m lazy and talentless and settled for Chinese food instead. This morning I was a baby bird ready to fly. Now I’m just a lost puppy wandering the streets, shitting explosively on everything within a 15-foot radius.


I didn’t turn to you expecting $16 Chinese food. I knew very well that my rice would be cooked by a 17-year-old white girl wearing cat ears and prescriptionless glasses, andt hat my Spicy Carnival Zing Chicken with Fiesta Spring Summer Fall Vegetables sounds like less of a Chinese province and more like a realtor’s list of buzzwords. I ripped apart the brown bag that had been stapled shut 14 times knowing that I’d be committing to sweatpants and a greasy film over all of my belongings for the next three days. I didn’t know I’d be excreting all of my bodily contents just in time for beach bod season.


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Why is my stomach an Ethiopian street market with wild chickens wreaking havoc on small children? Why is my body telling me no, but my heart is telling me “BEAT AT 150 DUBSTEP SONGS PER MINUTE”?Did you hear the rush of air that just exited my rectum? It sounded as heinous as if Hillary Clinton had released a tape about her experiences growing up a young black man from da streets. Did you serve me chicken stomach filled with the Legos the chicken ate just before its death, or just the scrapings from the dumpster behind the chicken place around the corner?Any faith I had in you is dead. Any faith I had in anything is dead. I’ll probably have to take up knitting, or creating cold-brew coffee, or force-feeding gluten to people with Celiac to feel like life has a purpose.


This whole problem could have been avoided if you had just been honest with me in the first place. For example, where you wrote “chicken,”you should have changed that to “the underbelly of the couch your parents conceived you on.”Where it said “rice” should be “the reprocessed gum of the modern day delinquent Breakfast Clubbers whose lives don’t actually turn out cool or movie-worthy.” Instead of “Spicy Carnival” you should have said “Hispanic Carnie. There is literally the meat of a Hispanic carnival worker in this dish.”


Rather than having me sign a receipt, you should have had me sign a waiver that said, “I take full responsibility for the agricultural Ebola I am about to experience because I knowingly and willingly order a ’spicy, carnival, fiesta’ dish from a Chinese restaurant.Also I am the owner and operator of a micropenis.”


If you had simply done that, you wouldn’t be the cause of the next menace to society, and most importantly you wouldn’t have started to question why the ink on this note is neither a pleasant color nor smell. Let’s be real here, I’ll probably keep coming back to you–I’m too naïve to believe “Asia Market” could be consistently shitty (pun intended) and not desperate enough to actually stoop down to $3 Chinese food—but I won’t be happy about it. You can consider my leaving my phone number on every receipt I sign hoping for a rom-com-esque romantic gesture a memory from the distant past.


Wishing E. Coli on you from my violated porcelain throne,


Your Begrudgingly Loyal Customer.

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