I'm a bit fucking irate, and I'm ready to fucking lash out at someone.
I talk about finding substance in wine so much but why can't I fucking find it for myself? Stand up a bit fucking straighter, calm down a bit, and fucking just not care.
No amount of whisky is going to give me that. Fuck me senseless. At least the food came out nice. I tried to keep the temper under control, lest the guests hear me lose my shit. Fucking ridiculous. I start searing the beef, and then I get fucking body-checked to the side so he can lay down some newspaper. I'll fucking clean up the splatter after I finish cooking the dish!! Leave me alone - what's more important to you, the food, or the fucking stovetop? Fucking hell, we're in a fucking kitchen, not a fucking Singaporean hospital. And how come the words, 'Fuck off', mean nothing to you? When I tell you to leave, I mean get the fuck out of my kitchen, because you're in my fucking way and the food is going to come out like a fucking pig's dinner. Damn.
I need a lock on the kitchen door.