That's right, it's fucking rhubarb season, and everyone's losing their shit. I mean, myself included. Give me one glimpse of that stalky red hunk of tartmeat and I black out for at least an hour. I haven't slept in days, partly on account of the excitement, but also partly on account of I need a pet. For a while talking to my plants was cutting it. But the day inevitably comes when you realize the lavender isn't going to talk back, and crippling loneliness sets in deep like the realization that you can't take back all the years you didn't wear your retainer, signing away your life to an eternity of snaggleteeth. I need to lavish something with love, and it has to be 1) warm-blooded 2) alive 3) soft 4) have at least 3 legs and 5) have a nose, or I'll freak out. 
I almost had a pet recently. This is Coco, the cat formerly known as "Coco the Shitty Cat" cause she maimed me every time I got near her for the first six months we lived in the same neighborhood. She's about 4'2", 130 pounds, and does not listen to directions or requests. She meows like a zamboni. But a month ago Coco had a change of heart. Realized she was missing all my sweet lovin' spoonfuls; decided she wanted to be mine. That's right. She comes into my kitchen every morning, rubs her cute little head on my appendages, follows me around, and sits in a doorway until my roommate makes her leave.However, there are circumstances permanently preventing Coco's and my union.
1. My roommate is allergic to her.
2. She is a feral cat and probably has anthrax or rickets.
3. I am only allowed to have fish in this apartment and Coco cannot pass as a fish.
4. I do not have a vacuum cleaner and in a matter of days would suffocate in pile-ups of her lustrous hair.
5. I don't know what cats eat.
6. I don't know how to play with cats to ensure proper cognitive development.
7. The odor of cat litter makes my internal organs spontaneously combust.
So I still don't have a pet and it's time to stop pretending. I've got zero prospects. But I need a pet like Whitney needed to dance with somebody, somebody who loved her. My options at this point are to: 1) Cryogenically freeze myself after making some smart investments so that when I come to in 5 years I'll be able to afford a house and several pets; 2) Walk the streets of Oakland until I find an animal so desperate that I must take it in and can justify it to anyone who'd give me shit about it; 3) Elope to Reno with Coco. Which is what I plan to do, so I'll be seeing you all later.
Before I go here's one for the goddamn rhubarbarians. I expect you'll get your shit together in a week; if not don't look at my blog anymore and get out of my life.
Rhubarb Sludge
Changed basically 0% from Molly Wizenburg
Buckle your pants, cause this shit comin atcha like a pterodactyl on ecstasy.
2 lbs rhubarb YYOOOOOOO
1/2 c sugar EEEEEEEEE
1/2 c white wine YYEEEOOWW
1 vanilla bean*, split and scraped (don't be an asshole and lose any of the tiny black balls of joy)
*Vanilla beans are long shrivelly shitty looking things that are actually heavenly gifts left for us by the Founding Fathers. You can find vanilla beans if you dig under your driveway, break open granite, or sift through the silt at the bottom of the crick.
LISTEN TO MY DIRECTIONS: Wash the rhubarb, obviously, then cut it into 3-inch segments using a knife or very sharp edge of something else. Put it in an oven safe pot like a frikkin LE CREUSET, BITCHES, add the other ingredients, give them the ol' mixabout, and bake on a rack in the bottom third of the oven - know your fractions? Bet I know them better - UNCOVERED for 30 minutes or until the rhubarb is soft and coming apart in sexy stalky mouthbits. It's stupid to even say this but mix it up, jerks, halfway through the cooking process so the vegetable cooks evenly.
Eat it on ice cream, by itself, on yogurt, on some effing RICOTTA, I don't care what you do with it and I don't want to know as long as you only share it with people you fucking love and have never betrayed you cause this shit cray cray good.
