p We need to get one thing straight: I don’t give a flying fuck about what you ate for dinner last night. Or a regular fuck, for that matter. So I don’t—repeat, DO NOT—want to see any more pictures of your goddamn food on my newsfeed.
That means you, study-abroaders. Oooh, look at you and your curry. Guess what, you puff of spicy flatulence? I can get delectable mostly-authentic cuisine delivered to the cozy warmth of the sorority house. You had to go to Europe. I’m sorry— who’s winning here?
Point: Just because a food is pretty doesn’t mean it tastes good, you shallow dick. My brother can whup up a really attractive drink and put it in a fancy decorated glass and it’ll still taste like dog piss and endless bachelorhood. PBR can do the same thing. Those of us who have learned not to judge books by their covers know that no matter how many times you take a picture of your pretty girlfriend and her pretty pasta, it doesn’t change the fact that your girlfriend is still a stupid asshole and she somehow managed to burn the pasta. And you hadn’t even tried it when you took the picture, because you thought that sticking your fork in would ruin the perfect symmetry of aforementioned pasta. I refuse to trust that that was good food until I see a picture of you with the food in your mouth making a pleasant expression.
Here’s another thing to think about— your food is currently doing one of three activities: a) clogging your toilet, b) still working its way through your colon, or c) making your yoga pants worth wearing. Done. Those are the options. None of them are attractive, except for your ass in yoga pants. Ergo: looking at pictures of colorful, beautiful, ethnic food before it gets absolutely obliterated by your digestive system is tantamount to looking at pictures of Haiti pre-earthquake, or a stripper pre-meth addiction. Everybody sees a picture of before-the-downfall and mourns the loss of titties and tourist beaches. But yet, nobody looks at food porn and considers the tragedy that your salad, as far as it is concerned, has just been shredded into bits, thrown into a pit of acid, and marched Trail-of-Tears style through the endless darkness that is your small intestine. That’s a fate worse than Haiti and meth strippers combined. So every time you take a picture of something you’re about to digest, I want you to compare what you’re doing to that guy in Girl with the Dragon Tattoo who took pictures of women before brutally dismembering them. You sick bastard.
You know what you should take photos of? Friends. Art. Charleston Nippleberry slapping the bag. All of these are wonderful moments to share with the world. “Lolz just ate a croissant look at its cute widdle filling #yummyinmahtummy” is unacceptable. I couldn’t be more disgusted if the croissant was skinny-arming.
So stop taking pictures of your food. You can enjoy your food, much like your life, without having to show all your Facebook friends how much you’re enjoying them. Let’s preserve the purity and integrity of the porn magazine as the only institution in society that circulates photographs for the sole purpose of showing you all the beautiful and delicious things in life that you will probably never have.