Recipe for Disaster_Dead men don't give a f***_At The Last Meal_How To Slash A Tire
Catalog Guide:
Recipe for Disaster
Recipe for Disaster “Recipes are just algorithms — right?”“Uh… yeah, in a way.”“So, do it. I dare you!”You don’t dare me when it comes to food preparation. Usually. Because I’ll take the challenge!I’m a competent cook — not a five-star Michelin chef, by any means. Who would want to be? Imagine the stress… it would take all the fun out of cooking!Which brings the side point: is cooking still actually fun, in my daily job?I’m not even sure whether I qualify as a chef. What is a chef, exactly? Technically, chef de cuisine is a fancy French term that, in plain English, means “head of the kitchen”....
Dead men don't give a f***
[Warning: Language. Mention of Dead People.]You know those films where people are too stupid to realize they’re dead? I’ve got the opposite problem: people are too stupid to realize I’m dead.“What do you mean by ‘dead’?” Her voice like an ad for benevolent neutrality.“I mean dead as opposed to alive. How many meanings are there to ‘dead’?”“It can have several meanings” says she, ever so cool. “Why choose this one?”Note to self: never get into a war of words with a shrink.“Choice has nothing to do with it,” I spit out. “If I could choose, I would choose not to be dead, you know? Ask anyone on t...
At The Last Meal
It was Ruby’s first day working in her aunt’s crossroads restaurant, but it wasn’t her first time seeing someone drop dead in front of her after she gave them something to eat.There was something strangely nostalgic about it, when the heads banged on the hard wood of table two as the guests collapsed. The kind of nostalgia one might feel remembering their school bullies. Ruby stood, holding the jug of water she was ready to put on their table. Slowly, she turned and walked back behind the bar. When was the first time you witnessed Death take a soul?Her first time was Billy. That fat, freckled ...
How To Slash A Tire
Step One: Let some air out.“You have to depressurize the tire,” the older boy explains, pulling out his switchblade. With a flick of a button, a two-inch blade appears. My eyes grow wide—I have never seen anything like it. With a vulpine grin, he hands the knife to me to hold. I shake my head. His hair is long, blonde, feathered. He’s www.onedoor.ccwearing a black AC/DC concert t-shirt. I don’t know him very well since he goes to another school, but he’s a friend of Susy Watts. “Why do you have to do that?” I ask, watching him use the tip of his blade to push down the metal pin in the center of the valve st...