6 AM and I am awoken by screaming.
And I don't mean just a little shout; I'm talking an ear-piercing, blood-curdling shriek. My immediate reaction is to jump out of bed, thinking that there's a fire or something, because what the hell could be producing such a reaction, other than a life-or-death emergency?
The shrieking slowly begins to sound more like cheering. Maybe they put out the fire and everyone's cheering on the FDNY? Now we must remember, I'm barely awake and this seems like a perfectly logical explanation to me.
I pry apart the shades of my window and discover that my worst nightmare has been realized: my dorm is surrounded by hundreds of middle-aged women, waiting to be granted entry into the Rachael Ray show.
|The scene of the crime.|
Flashback to a month ago when I thought it was super cool that Rachael Ray's studio was right outside. Sure, the massive poster appeared to stare into my soul at all hours of the day, but who doesn't love a good 30-minute meal?
That being said, a well-cooked casserole is nothing to scream about. Who knew that a bunch of 40-year-old women waving autographed copies of a cookbook could rival the noise level of One Direction fans?
So yeah, I essentially lost two hours of precious
|The face of pure evil.|
Seriously, if you have the time and energy to spend your Wednesday morning camped outside to watch a woman literally do nothing except cook, I'm happy for you, I really am, but there's no need to alert the entire block.
Officially against the terms "Delish!" and "Yum-O!",