The other day I was just pulling my leftovers out of the microwave for the third time (1st time: chilly, 2nd time: lukewarm, 3rd time: just right) when Blake said to me --in all seriousness-- "Rach, there's something you need to know. And I'm sorry I have to be the one to break it to you. But you're horrible at picking microwave times."
And while that may be true, I like to think of it as a flaw that gives me character. Kind of like my irrational fear of spiders, my insatiable hunger for ice cream, and the chipped paint in my bathroom that shows the forest green peeking through the white.