It's wicked to mock the afflicted

I am no chef. I could not even qualify to be a chef's poofy white hat. If word gets out about the monstrosities that I have birthed, Romanian villagers will immediately make their way to my door with torches and pitchforks. I have witnessed the charred and mangled countenance of my creations dragging themselves from the oven only to be mercifully bludgeoned by me with a half-empty bottle of ouzo. I have stood over countless corpses of dinner, watching their death rattle, and easing my hunger with sips from my cudgel. Once again, my life is defined by a dichotomy. I enjoy cooking. It is a catharsis for me. Yet, ultimately, its result is inevitably a disappointment. I have burnt water and destroyed a pan in the process. I though the water boiling process could be much faster. I boiled water in one of those super fast electric tea pots, and simultaneously heated an empty pot on the burner. Licktey split. The water was boiled and I poured it into the preheated pan. The violence of the reaction was fantastic. I leapt like a cat to turn off the stove. The eruption from the pan not only did not cease but increased. By the time I was comfortably cowering under the kitchen table, the pot had calmed. The water was completely gone. The only thing remained was a burned residue at the bottom of the pot. Now that I have admitted to this, I am going to unplug the stove. I think it is for the best.