How to Make Chocolate Covered Strawberries in 11 Easy Steps.

Ingredients:

1.Chocolate baking squares and only one square of the chocolate you are supposed to dip fruit in because it's that microwaveable kind that won't burn but you don't have any more because you are lazy.

2. Strawberries.

You Will Need:

1. A plate. No two plates.

2. Something to melt the chocolate in. I used a glass measuring cup. Must be microwave safe.

3. A fork.

Step 1: Take your chocolate and put it in the measuring cup. Just eyeball the amount you will need because measuring things is for suckers. Get your significant other, roommate or friend to heat up and stir the chocolate for you because every time you have done it, the chocolate burned in the microwave and the house smelled like ass for most of the day.

Step 2: Spear your strawberries on your fork and dip them in the chocolate, trying to get that cool artful look to your food. Have strawberry slide off fork and become mired in the chocolate. Call it a whore. Pretend you are establishing dominance over the strawberry. Pull out something that looks like a dog turd with leaves sticking out of it. Place carefully onto plate.

Step 3: Find a giant lump of unmelted chocolate. Try to work around it. Try to get the hang of dipping. Give up on using fork, use fingers instead. Get chocolate all over fingers and every other utensil you are using. Find out that look of strawberries does not improve despite new method. Go back to using the fork. Lose another strawberry to the chocolate. Call the chocolate a bastard. Pretend you are establishing dominance over the chocolate.

Step 4: Realize that you failed to put down wax paper and now you have just glued a bunch of strawberries to the plate. Realize you don't own any wax paper. Eat chocolate off fingers. Feel better about self.

Step 5: Drop a strawberry onto the counter and or cutting board. Try to catch it. Fail miserably. Get chocolate on shirt. Try to suck it off. Realize that sounds dirty. Get out second plate because there are way more strawberries in this damn box then you thought. Get chocolate all over the cabinet in the process.

Step 6: Reheat chocolate to get rid of the solid unheated lump. Dip rest of strawberries with fingers you haven't washed because fuck it. Find out the hard way that chocolate just out of the microwave is hot as shit. Dance around the kitchen like a loony. Run fingers under a cold tap.

Step 7: Eat the last fucking strawberry. Realize that you have made too much chocolate. Way too much. Start to look for things to dip into it. Tell yourself that you are saving the earth by not throwing it away. Dip cookies in melted chocolate. Have a moment of pure sweet bliss.

Step 8: Run out of cookies. Start eating chocolate off your finger. Be unable to get all the way to the bottom of the cup with above method. Throw dignity to the winds and stick your whole hand in the damn measuring cup. Lick chocolate off fingers.

Step 9: Look up to realize that significant other/roommate/friend is watching. Come to conclusion that you have chocolate all over you. Especially your face. Tell them that they do not get to judge you. Watch them judge you. Eat rest of chocolate anyway.

Step 10: Find space in refrigerator for both plates of chocolates. Drop cheese on your own foot. Shove all the condiments into the door and then wedge it shut. Debate throwing out all that healthy food you bought to get the second plate in. Feel kinda bad about direction life has taken you. Eat another strawberry. Have chocolate flake off and fall on the floor. Prevent dog from eating fallen chocolate.

Step 11: Wait for chocolate to cool completely and make decision these are too ugly to be shared. Enjoy.

And Then I Caught the Stomach Flu.

Yeah I know. I am cursed. Like, really really cursed. I had just gotten over throwing my back out. Meaning that I no longer had to make a 'bending over plan' and didn't have to sleep in weird ass positions designed to keep my spine straight. So to celebrate, my immune system apparently decided it was taking a vacation.

And it didn't tell the rest of my body about it.

So the night before my internal apocalypse I noticed my stomach was upset. However, having had stomach problems before in my life, I chalked it up to the usual stress/caffeine/painkillers/witches and went to bed. Except that when I woke up in the morning, I still felt queasy. Of course this is when we were staying at Scott's parents house so we could commute to our jobs which were taking place in downtown DC that weekend. So when I was faced with the choice of not going to work and losing that money that I really, really freaking needed I opted to chew some Pepto and get on with my day. Which worked great.

Until we reached the parking lot at the Metro.

At that point my body was all, “oh you thought you were going to work, ha ha well you're not sucker!” Which was followed by vomiting. Lot's of vomiting. At that point I told Scott to go on without me, and to make the money for both of us now, which you know he totally hadn't been doing already because my back was fucked up, while I called Scott's dad and told him to come get me. Which took him an hour because traffic was super fuck all god awful. Then on the trip back I looked around his car and noticed a distinct lack of things to throw up into.

Which is how I ended up hyperventilating into a cooler for an hour and a half.

Well, Scott's dad was wonderful, making jokes and trying to take my mind off it, and reassuring me that no, really it was not that big of a deal that I called him to come get me in DC weekend traffic. While I kept apologizing and whining about how all of a sudden all my joints hurt and I was cold.

In case you were wondering, that is the moment I realized I was in some deep shit.

I also at some point when we were awash in a sea of brake lights, told him a lovely monologue about everything I had ever loved about his guest bathroom. I also saw a license plate with the word POOP4 spelled out on it. I considered it an omen.

When we returned I made a nest of towels on the bathroom floor, grabbed some water, and shut myself into the bathroom. Where I pretty much remained for the rest of the day. And when I said that it was an apocalypse in my intestinal track, I meant it. So I made a deal with myself, if I could keep water down, then I would not have to go to the expensive ass ER. Unfortunately that was harder then it seemed. Every forth of a bottle I drank would come straight back up, as though my stomach was some sort of drive through. “I'll just take some stomach virus and some hydrochloric acid to go thanks!” I could imagine the water shouting at my stomach lining before turning back the way it had come.

Needless to say I was pretty fucked the shit up.

Luckily I learned that right after vomiting I found I had a 'magic window' of about five minutes where what I put down there stayed down there. As long as I didn't move my head. Or stand up. Or think too loudly. By that night I was able to drink Gatorade and my fever had broke, but operation Eating Some Motherfucking Crackers was doomed to a spectacular 4am failure.

The next day we went home. Luckily, I seemed to be past the evacuate entire intestinal track like it's a goddamned fire drill part, but instead I had moved on to the the worst stomach cramps ever.

EVER.

The first thing we did when I got home was crawl into bed in the fetal position and wait for them to go away. Which of course they didn't. Also Scott became quite alarmed by my yelling stuff like, “why won't it stop hurting!?” and the fact that my total food intake for the past 48 hours was 6 crackers, so he made me a doctors appointment.

Which I drug myself to and got a some anti-nausea pills. So now I am happy to report that I can eat bland foods and have been steadily gaining energy, even though I still kinda feel like life has been taking baseball bats to my knee caps for two months.

So hopefully I've used up all my sickness and or injury cards for the whole year and it will only get better from here.

Either that or I am going to die soon.*

One or the other.

Keep your fingers crossed for me will you? Cause I think I need it.

*My tombstone will read “Here lies Holly- killed by a long string of bad luck. Also, diarrhea.”