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Cooking as a beginner is an adventure. I tried making a simple recipe the other day, and it asked for zest. Zest? I didn't even know lemons had attitude. I stood there arguing with a lemon, "Don't give me that sass, just give me your zest!" And don't get me started on the grocery store. It's a battlefield of choices. I walked down the spice aisle, and it felt like I was choosing my fighter in a culinary Mortal Kombat. Paprika, thyme, cumin – it's like assembling the Avengers of flavor.
Cooking instructions are the worst. They're like riddles written by a mischievous wizard. "Simmer until golden brown and the aroma fills the air." What am I, a wizard in training? I just want my pasta not to taste like cardboard.
Cooking for beginners is all about trial and error. Mostly error. My smoke alarm has seen things. It has PTSD from my attempts at gourmet cooking. I burnt water once. Didn't even know that was possible.
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So, I decided to join a gym. The last time I was in a gym, I thought protein shakes were just for people who couldn't handle the chunky parts of salsa. Gyms are like another planet with their own set of rules. The first rule of gym club is you don't talk about how you don't know what you're doing. I walked in confidently, like I was about to conquer Mount Everest, but ended up lost in the treadmill section, desperately trying not to be that person who falls off.
And the equipment! It's like a torture chamber designed by a sadistic architect. I tried a machine that looked like a medieval torture device, and it turns out it was just a leg press. My legs have never been more confused and betrayed.
Then there's the whole protein shake culture. I ordered one that claimed to taste like chocolate. It tasted like disappointment mixed with regret. I miss the days when the only lifting I did was a spoon to my mouth.
Joining a gym as a beginner is like entering a silent disco without knowing the dance moves. You're just there, awkwardly moving to the rhythm of your own confusion.
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You ever notice how being an adult is a lot like being a beginner in a video game? You start off clueless, no manual, and the first level is basically just figuring out how to make a decent cup of coffee. I mean, I used to think a French press was just a snobby way to say excuse me. But seriously, adulthood is like a game with no cheat codes. Remember when our biggest concern was trying to avoid homework? Now it's trying to avoid taxes. I miss the days when the only deduction I knew about was subtracting that one friend who never paid for pizza.
It's like we entered a twisted version of Monopoly where instead of passing go and collecting $200, you just hope to pass adulthood without a mental breakdown. And who came up with the idea that we should have 30-year mortgages? I can't commit to plans next week, and you want me to commit to a house for three decades? That's like a lifetime prison sentence with the chance of a really bad landlord.
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Dating is basically the advanced level of the beginner's guide to life. It's like trying to play a board game without reading the rules—confusing, unpredictable, and you're not sure if you're winning or losing. I recently tried online dating, and it's like online shopping but for relationships. You scroll through profiles like you're choosing a new Netflix show, hoping you don't end up with another romantic comedy that turns into a horror flick.
And the texting phase, don't even get me started. It's a constant game of decoding messages. "LOL" used to mean "laugh out loud," now it means "lots of love." I accidentally sent my grandma a message saying, "Sorry to hear about your cat. LOL." Awkward family dinner, anyone?
Dating is like navigating through a minefield of emotions, hoping you don't step on the commitment bomb too soon. And let's not forget the classic, "We need to talk." Nothing good ever follows that sentence. It's either a breakup or a discussion about why they think it's okay to leave the toilet seat up. Can we just go back to the days when relationships were as simple as sharing a juice box in kindergarten?
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