A few points...

When attempting to teach a roomie how to cook for his new girlfriend, don't have too much faith in the guy to start him off on something like Smoked Sea Bass with a Khus Khus filling, and if it seems imperative that he must be started off on this variety of fish where jaw-stabbing bones don't pop up periodically, leave signs all over the kitchen regarding the importance of de-scaling the god damn fish. Hmm, not bad. (crunch) ah, another scale.

When spending the night at home, being woken up by the dog nibbling on one's toes to be taken for a walk is not a terrible thing. The answer to that is not to call said dog over to head level, and chomping down, hard on his snout. Regardless of how lazy sleepy one is.

Angels in my Kitchen, other than being unwelcome in my kitchen, will always choose to rip you off on their chocolate croissants. The chocolate will only be found in the innermost layer of the croissant, and constant microwaving of the croissant over the period of eating the massive thing will yield to lovely gooey goodness that will attempt to burn a hole in one's tongue and than proceed to do so to the esophagus and any other organs it encounters. A definite option is to heat it a bit, then tear open the sides and fill them with Nutella. This results in a most lovely hazelnut variety of croissant. Although too many hazelnut croissants could be bad along the lines of cholesterol and result in a mild case of deadness. Symptoms include immobility, an inability to respond to interesting events, and a pervasive, unpleasant odor. It is almost always fatal.

When a punju boy in his pimped lancer stops at a traffic light and regards one with a challenging look, revving his engine in an attempt to intimidate, have mercy on the guy's poor girlfriend sitting next to him, god bless the girl for putting up with said punju boy, and hold back on racing him. He will lose. His engine will start coughing, and wheezing, and start to release great gouts of smoke. He will then glare, blaming you for his predicament, while the soon to be non-girlfriend screams at him. Under no circumstances should you agree to drop the now non-girlfriend home if she so asks, lest punju boy fall to his knees as a big, sobby, spoiled brat of a mess.

When sharing your nice, clean blood with a 16.6 hemoglobin and 275k platelet count with a leukemia patient, feel free to begin to lose all faith in the nurse when she exclaims her inability to find your vein. Feel freer to do so when she molests your finger with a needle to re-re-re-confirm your blood group before the actual process of bleeding you dry. Finally, it is within your civil rights to rant and rave at the nurse and all her colleagues, and the world at large, and attempt to invoke the name of Sir Ganga Ram when incompetent nurse manages to pierce through the vein on the other side too, so that during aspheresis, platelet-free blood pumped back in ends up getting pumped directly into the skin, forming a bruise the size of a grapefruit. You also retain the right to scream and snap at the patient's hot niece who came in to check in on you, when she asks if your face is contorted into a veneer of fury out of fear, while said incompetent nurse is squeezing the crap out of your arm's grapefruit to try and get some of that extra blood out. It. Bloody. Hurts.