At this point, I’m convinced she doesn’t even know how her stove works. I’m not sure she’s ever touched a frying pan. The oven? Just extra storage space. The only thing in her fridge is leftover sauce packets and maybe a half-empty bottle of soda.
Because she orders delivery. For. Every. Single. Meal.
Breakfast? Uber Eats.
Lunch? DoorDash.
Dinner? Postmates.
Midnight snack? Somehow, she finds a place that’s still delivering.
I’ve never seen her boil water. I don’t think she even owns salt. The closest she’s come to “homemade” food is reheating last night’s takeout in the microwave. And even then, I swear I caught her debating whether to just order something fresh instead.
Her phone notifications are a graveyard of past orders. Her favorite delivery drivers know her by name. The delivery apps have probably sent her birthday gifts. She’s single-handedly keeping the local restaurants in business.
At this point, I have questions.
- How does she afford this?! Is she secretly rich? Does she have a “food budget” the size of a small country’s GDP? Or has she just fully accepted financial ruin in exchange for convenience?
- Does she not get tired of delivery food? Like, I love fries, but after the third time in a row, I start questioning my life choices. She? Zero regrets.
- What does she even do with her time if she never has to cook? Honestly, I kind of respect the efficiency. No grocery shopping, no meal prepping, no dishes? Maybe she’s onto something.
But still. SMH.
One day, I asked, “Do you even know how to cook anything?”
She blinked at me. “I can make cereal.”
“Doesn’t count.”
She thought for a second. “I can… make toast?”
I sighed. “Okay, but like, a real meal.”
She shrugged. “I mean, I know how to order food really well. That’s a skill.”
I stared at her, defeated. “Unbelievable.”
But then, later that night, when she casually pulled up her phone and asked, “Want anything? My treat.”
…Well, suddenly, I wasn’t complaining.
SMH.
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