Pie, Bitches

I did it. Finally. I finally manned up and did it. I managed to put on my big girl panties and wash away the terrible stench of failure.

I made a pie. From scratch. Take that, bitches.

The last time I tried to make a pie, all hell broke loose. Flour was spilled; dough was thrown; I called apples motherfuckers. And when, finally, I dispatched my then husband to get frozen pie crust, the pie wasn't that good. It was runny and stupid and it pissed me off.

Today, though, the triumphant glow from my unclogged sink drain filled me with a strange sense of confidence. I wanted apple pie, and no pansy-assed frozen pie crust was going to do it for me.

And I did it.

Granted, my pie looked like a C effort in a Home Ec class for the emotionally disturbed, but it tasted pretty goddamn good. Further, I think I broke the code. I actually learned something this time, and I think I can do this again.

My god. The bitch can bake an apple pie. I'm officially perfect.