what have i done

[popecrunch]

In 1924, Ettore Boiardi opened a restaurant on Woodland Avenue in Cleveland. His food was such a success and brought joy to so many people that only four years later, he opened a factory and began shipping his gustatory delights to families far and wide, eventually across the entire planet.

This is not one of those delights.

It was a battle lost by inches - changing the spelling of his name for the purposes of pronunciation here, cutting some corners with materials there, but the end result is that can of Human Chow that sits in every supermarket, almost always on sale for about a buck.

I have done terrible things to the contents of that can, and I want to go back in time.



The scene of the crime. One large can of 'beef' 'ravioli', a package of sub rolls, plates. Two saucepans. Two cans of carrots because I'll be goddamned if I feed this to my family without something they can look at to remember what nutrition used to be. To remember what we used to be. A single tear. I lift the can.



What's ravioli lasagna? A goddamned abomination by any measure, that's what.



Fuck you, ravioli lasagna. Fuck you right in half. I want to throw you into the caldera of an active volcano, and then cannonball in after you. End my life.



Well here we are. This looks... this looks used. I didn't notice it until I started writing this, but the bit of 'pasta' peeking up near the top of the image looks sort of like vulva. Dead vulva. Strangely, the mental image of a can of food filled with dead genitals isn't the most horrible thought I've had in the last two hours. I am going to answer for this meal after I die. I don't expect it to go particularly well. Sorry, applicable deity. I could only have failed you anyway.



There's that goddamned ravioli lasagna again. It's something to look at to distract you from the hot mess happening on the right hand side of the picture, at least. I cannot describe the sound it made, and even if I could, I wouldn't do that to you. Learn from my mistakes. Go and find the love there is in this world that I have so completely cut myself off from. Don't be like me. Don't be like me.



I'm not sure how well this comes through, but this shit is shiny. There's a goddamned oil slick atop the.. whatever this is. The carrots look on in abject terror. They know their fate is to be devoured, but not like this.

Never like this.



The crime in progress. What. Did you think I was going to clean my stove for this travesty? Do you think it matters? Do you think anything matters? I'm not being rhetorical, I honestly don't even know anymore.



I had to make the goatse joke. It's sort of like how when you see a video of someone about to leap off a building to their death, sometimes they look up at the clouds and smile a little. A tiny bit of levity before the moment of indescribable horror and then oblivion. I was not lucky enough to die.



The sub roll looks sort of like it's screaming here. I know its pain.



Although the carrots try, they can not escape. Escape was never a possibility for any of us. I feel like I have damned you all just by sharing my journey with you. Sorry. If I get there first, I'll save you a nice seat in Hell.



Meat should never be gray. Do they even pretend that this is meat. Note the blurry dog in the background. She's usually all up in my grill when we eat dinner, but showed exactly zero interest in tonight's golgothan horror. Animals are a lot smarter than we give them credit for.



It is done. The sauce stains my hand - no, my soul - like blood. I sort of wish it was my blood.



If my family finds this, know that I am very sorry for what I have inflicted upon you, and I will bear this suffering for all time. Forgiveness is too much to even dream of. All I ask is that you forget I ever existed. If you must speak of me when I am gone, leave this horrible night out. Let this sin die with me.

The worst thing was that I went back for seconds.