I have now tried every single tikka masala recipe. Every Indian cuisine website, every fusion cookbook, hell, even the shit you’d find at the tiny ass back-alley Indian junk food store. It doesn’t matter. It all tastes like Baljeet’s cock. The goat curry? Baljeet’s cock. The palak paneer? Baljeet’s cock. The dhokla? The patra? The methi paratha? The gulab jamun, even? Baljeet’s. Fucking. Fat. Cock. It’s too much. I can’t eat the food that makes up 1/4 of my family’s native cuisine without tasting the animated genitalia of a cartoon character. And it’s evolving, too. The other day, I took a break from trying the most obscure Indian recipes of all time and ate at a fucking McDonald’s. I bit into what I thought to be the shitty 90% pink slime “beef” between those bread buns… but as soon as my taste buds made contact, I suddenly vomited and chucked my tray across the restaurant. It’s everywhere. It won’t stop. Baljeet’s cartoon dick won’t stop following me. I feel the countable pixels in my mouth every time I take a bite into the food I need to survive. It appears in my dreams, with Baljeet stuffing his south-Indian horse wiener down my throat. When I drink what should be the luscious and smooth refreshing treat of a mango lassi, all I feel is him nutting in my throat. Don’t tell me that the solution is suicide. I’ve tried it. But every time, I feel nothing flying through my skull or penetrating my skin. Only Baljeet’s endlessly-powerful member slapping my temples and wrists. All that could take me out of this life has been made by Baljeet to keep me in it. Fuck you, Baljeet. You’re a sadistic cunt.