The Other Side of 21

I recently had the bright idea of eating Sidekicks for dinner.

Sidekicks, for those not in the know, are instant pasta-and-sauce in a package.

Here is a small picture of Sidekicks:




Sidekicks are intended to be served as a side dish, flanked by a chicken breast or a pile of brussel sprouts or something.

The other day, I ate them as a main course, a side dish and a dessert.

I used to do this all the time. My former housemate and I would eat Sidekicks for dinner (straight out of the pot, no less) probably at least twice a week during much of our undergrad. Sidekicks were delicious and economical and ever-so-slightly classier than Mr. Noodle. It was a match made in lazy student heaven.

When I re-visited Sidekicks the other day, they did not taste anywhere as good as I remember them tasting. In addition to this, they sat around in my tummy for many an hour, feeling like a cheesy, gelatinous mess.

The conclusion I will draw from this is that I am getting old, and can no longer consume sketchy food products without consequence.

Further evidence of aging: I went to an engineer party in the student ghetto this past weekend, hoping to reclaim wildness of days of yore. I drank peach schnapps, which was my non-beer alcohol of choice in my early twenties. But instead of turning me into a wild party (rah rah, ole!), I got really sleepy and left before midnight.

And you wanna know what? I was pretty happy about that. And you wanna know why? Bedtime is awesome. Sleeping is my favourite thing ever.

Maybe I'll even take a little napsy before the Caribou show tonight...but before I do, could you fetch me some warm milk and my digestive cookies? Go on, junior! Scoot! Don't make me thwap your backside with my cane!

(Now playing: "A Mind's Dying Verse 2", The Russian Futurists)