The night I met the guy that I’ve referred to as Billy, I couldn’t keep my alcohol down. Not because I was vomiting — but because I was retarded. First, as we were dancing, I received a text message. I had been holding my Malibu Bay Breeze and my iPhone in one hand. When I saw my screen light up, I turned my wrist to get a better view of the message. In doing so, a little thing called gravity kicked in and half of my drink spilled out of my cup and onto the floor. Or what I thought was the floor.
No. I spilled half my drink on this guy’s foot. FML. We both looked down and back up at each other slowly. Me, with my jaw dropped.
“I am so sorry,” I said, and ran over to the bar to get a napkin for him.
Everyone has their own tolerance for spicy foods. That is why you need to know who you’re asking when you want to find out how spicy something is. Maybe I should be clearer: You should know who not to ask. For example, I’m no fool. I have learned to never ever ever ask my dad or my best friend, Kerry, if what they are eating is spicy.
I am convinced that both of their tongues have been deadened over time. They have the highest tolerance for spice of anyone I know. I, on the other hand, am horrified by spicy food. I think it completely ruins the taste of whatever I am eating…oh, and I cry. Yeah, the crying sucks.
While I was on my cruise this past July, a hilarious comedian named Andrew Kennedy made a comment about the Indian section of the buffet in the main dining hall. He commented on the fact that he thought he could handle the curry they put out, but it ended up being obscenely spicy for his taste. He then went into a whole skit about how Indians put curry on absolutely everything, and joked about how he saw an Indian woman scooping it up and putting it in her cereal earlier that day.
I, myself, am baffled by Continue reading