Dear Sir, I would like to point out the fact that your smelly markers are missing a crucial scent that could really put your business back on the map. Of course everyone remembers the cherries and the mints (or the wonderful Burned Marshmellow) that they sniffed themselves sterile over in the loud, chaotic environment of 3rd grade art class. But that time has passed – much of your audience is now in their mid-20s and, while I am sure we would all thoroughly enjoy receiving a packet of your scented markers as a gift, $12 is just too much to pay.
Unless. If you were to integrate a flavor so exceptionally delightful that no one would be able to live without your marker. I believe I have that flavor. Are you ready?
Ranch.
Say it out loud. It could color a off-white with peppercorn dots. Trust me – if you could capture the olfactortasticness of restaurant ranch dressing (just think about it, served as a side with your club sandwich and fries – you’re just getting hungry thinking about it, aren’t you, Mr. Sketch?) no one over the age of 5 and under the age of 100 would be able to resist. Scented Markers would be back on the map! Back on top! Ball’s in your court, Sketch.
Why do all these movies from my childhood show some young, naughty teenager babysitting kids and then her boyfriend shows up and within 3 minutes they’re making out hardcore on the couch half-way to 3rd base (which I believe is the base of gazing deep into each other’s braces)
Wouldn’t taking care of other people’s minions be the opposite of an aphrodisiac? I think it actually keeps girls single at least until the end of high school if they babysit regularly. It just seems to be a perpetuated urban myth of the horndog babysitter and that needs to stop. Babysitters are schoolmarms, pre-marm. They’re not Alicia Silverstone. You just got called out, late-80s to mid-90s movies.
I think actual babysitting goes a little more like this:
So when I’m going around doing stuff, I like to have a book in case of some down time. And I don't have a personal cell phone, so if I am getting emails/calls, they're probably work related so not exactly the best way to relax.
Thus I have found, it helps to have a book on me at all times one because I like readingwith my eyes (as opposed to letting my eyes wander carelessly around the room and perhaps linger too long on some awkward location on someone’s person and then they catch me and I’m like dang it, eyes! I knew I should have given you something to do!) and two because most of the options in doctors’ offices or DMV lobbies aren’t exactly my favorite thing to read. (sorry, Hot HobosQuarterly)
So I keep a book in my purse. As I am always (barely) trying to grow and become a better person, I tend to read self-help. Currently, my pursebook is When Things Fall Apart by Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron.
Here is a picture of the cover:
It’s really a wonderful book, one of those that you can have for years and re-read over and over, each time finding some new, helpful insight that strikes you. I have probably read it three or four times and it’s one of my favorites.
The problem?
Well…it sort of makes me look like a suicidal hippie. And not even because of the title. Because of my neurotic chain reaction after someone asks me about it.
One time, I was reading it over lunch at work, and an office lady walked by and went, “Oh, what are you reading?” (OK, first of all I hate when people ask this…it’s like, just look at the cover if you want to know and also why do you even care? This isn’t a book club – this is work/Sparta. I’m citing you for insubordination!)
Begrudgingly, I held up the book so she could see the title…and of course she looked at me with this droopy dog face as if to say, “Oh do you have cancer? Or maybe you’re one of those Sally Jesse Raphael moms and your teenager beats you?”
And so of course I felt the need to clarify.
“No, I’m not sad - it’s about Buddhism.”
And the lady cocked her head at me only without sympathy now, and instead with sort of a “does it smell like waffles in here to you?” look and said kind of bluntly, “Oh are you into that?”
And I was like, “…Uhhh…Well, I guess so – it’s more about putting compassion into every day life.” But by then she was totally weirded out (maybe because she was expecting to have to comfort a dying hippie–or am I really that snobby?) and was already on her way out of the kitchen while she said something like, “Oh okay.” So…I kind of stopped reading it at work and other public places for a while. But it’s such a helpful book, I always wind up carrying it around again.
And anyway, don’t judge me just because I want to be a better person. That book helps me and probably countless others so who cares if someone like Office Drone Susan McJagginstacks doesn’t get it. Insubordination!
And that type of silly neurotic behavior is exactly why I need to be reading the book in the first place. If you’re going to go to pieces & get all uppity when someone takes a polite-if-nonchalant interest in what you are reading, chances are you should to be reading from the Self-help section anyway. Thank you, Pema Chodron. You have changed my life – sorry I always fall short of your instructions, but I know you understand.
Maybe in calendar form, like in that British teadrinking naked ladies movie, where they're like, "We're doing this to save our friend from cancer...even though we're a group of at least 15 people so couldn't we just take up a collection instead?" ? (that punctuation is correct. Check the Nasdaq if you don't believe me. And yes I know that movie is based on a true story. Suck it, cancer!)
Or maybe a quarterly publication with hobo interviews and steamy pics (for fan service)?
Gross. Hello, it’s not 1871 or prior anymore, people. We all know who the last president to have a moustache was (hint: it was one of the bathtub sticking ones)…and frankly, I don’t understand why you would want to be associated with the fattest, richest president in our lexicon of fat rich presidents.
And don’t those get food stuck in them? And like, numerous other particles?
Of course, I'm sure there are some perks
And, I can see how they act as front line nose hairs for all of the pollution and poisonous gas floating around in our oxygen and I am always very grateful of my nose hairs filtering air and making it a more reasonable temperature for my throat and lungs to deal with. So I’m not knocking nose hairs in general – nose hairs are great! Just seeing other gentlemen’s roam around freely is sort of…old worldish to me.
I do enjoy those really long handlebar ones that like genies and stuff have. Genies are great! And I bet if you have a genie, you don’t even need nose hairs anymore. Just wish for cleaner air. Al Gore, I’m looking at you.
When I was about 11, I got a sweet new 10 speed - read: first bike without training wheels - that was black and silver, with neon pink styling. It ruled and everyone who saw it was hugely jealous. And rightly so.
The problem?
I was kind of a short 11 year old and my feet didn't really touch the pedals unless the seat was all the way lowered and even then I was straining with my tip-toes. Hiding this from my parents was hard enough...but actually getting the thing up and hoisting myself onto the seat and then moving it forward was nothing short of a Herculean feat of determination that I think required the use of a magic flute I had lying around.
One day, I was riding (well, pushing and jumping at) the coveted 10 speed around at a family member's house (I had used a porch step to tip myself into the seat) and I suddenly lost a jelly sandal. The jelly had been just thick enough to give not only proper traction, but the full length of limb necessary to properly power the bike.
I felt a terrible white hot fear in my stomach and almost like I might faint. And then...a moment of clarity.
I was obviously going to die, yes, but I didn't have to flail around like a scared baby and make my last moments horrifically embarrassing. I could go down with dignity. The bike was losing momentum. I only had a few seconds left now. I thought about how I had begged for the bike, even though I knew I wasn't really big enough to ride it yet and realized we all have dreams. Big dreams that maybe we're not quite ready for, but as long as we keep dreaming, even if we die in a horrible bicycle-squishing-our-guts-out-through-our-nostrils accident, that's what makes the dream and living all worth it. Seconds later, the bike stopped and tipped sideways into the grass.
I'm safe, I thought for a second. My belief has carried me through to a nice soft grass landing. But not to be. My upper torso hit the grass, but my right leg - and the bike on top of it - hit the scratchy new sidewalk concrete like a bag of melty ice cubes. I heard them break. It was awful.
I looked down because I couldn't feel my knee, and saw a chunk of it was missing. Somehow, despite landing in the grass, my chin was all scratched up (I think it was the handlebar - that wicked evil 10 speed). I dragged myself to the porch (I had only gotten as far as the sidewalk in front of the house) and examined my knee.
"I can see the bone!" I yelled, my eyes darting around in a panic for the nearest adult.
That night when my mom picked me up, I had a lot of band-aids. And a lot of donettes in my tummy. Apparently they're the only thing that keep knee injuries from feeling like the icy hand of death. Thanks, wicked 10 speed.
We all get a little smug and comfy up on our high horses sometimes. Usually, it's the places you'd least expect that kick you right down off that high horse and into a puddle of dung beetle sombreros.
Today, I decided to check out what happens when I'm on my own blog (checking for spelling errors! I absolutely do not go back and reread my own posts or look at my own pictures or video for amusement. I'm doing a spellcheck. Spelling.) and you hit Next Blog.
Normal enough, right? Don't act so cool, I know you do it, too.
Immediately, I was taken to a series of photography blogs with (I'm just going to say it okay?) odd, slightly amateurish pictures of wedding parties (all nontraditional like - so maybe the bride is made up like a pretty pretty princess standing under a tree and the groom is three feet away, wearing basketball shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt to show off his dynamic arm tats. Also, he's wearing sunglasses. And they don't even look like they're into each other. "Thus our story unfolds" the caption (should have) said) were the main focus. And then a bit farther down the page, a few pictures of babies with food all over their faces but in Black and White (now that's avant garde).
So, clearly, I kept clicking.
And curiously, I very soon found myself roped into a group of blogs in another language. A language I didn't understand. A language I don't even recognize. The first visual was so arresting, I had to take a screen-shot.
Gel Kizim indeed.
Kind of funny, yeah? Awkward geocities format, obviously very little SEO optimization and even less consideration given to make the format or color palette appealing. I felt smug and condescending. Oh well, at least you've got that child there, Oguz. Maybe people will read your blog one day, poor ponce...then I saw his followers. 16. 16?!
I don't even have UHH follower. Let alone 16 followers who would painstakingly check out my bi-annual updates and grainy cell phone photos of me and my kid in front of our scary haunted house curtains. (those curtains are the kind an old lady would lovingly hang, and then die in front of) And I have animation! Well, drawings.
Anyway, I felt a little taken down off my pedastal. Where were the really bad foreign blogs? The ones where someone hasn't even manipulated their pre-formated design scheme and has animated gifs of things like magic dust or jumping bunnies?
I clicked on.
The next blog was even worse. And by worse, I mean better.
No need to overdo it with cuteness, Olga.
She has an adorable cat-pumpkin drawing, a funny blog title in English pun no less and a sexy picture of her and her cocaine dealer boyfriend living it up in the Moscow night. Moscow has the most billionaires in the world, did you know that? And clearly, Alice and her miraculous breasts have taken advantage. She's probably one of them, in fact. Because she had over 400 followers. That's kind of cheating though, because maybe teenage boys stumbled onto her blog by searching something about bras and became followers in the hopes that somewhere, somehow this foreign woman would post pictures of her boobs.
Foreign blogs are better than me. It's clear. But I just couldn't stop, I had to find something that was bad in a true way. Not just a wedding photo way, that's such an easy bad. Anyone can do that kind of bad.
Next blog.
I was hopeful.
There were no pictures. And the layout and text design left very much for the creative neurotic to desire. The posts were long blocks of text with no paragraphs or even spaces between some periods. I was starting to feel smug again. Even jolly.
Then the followers. 138. 138 people would rather go blind reading what, I don't know Moby Dick in Portugese? than look at my inoffensive pictures and charmingly droll anecdotes? Apparently. But the design was crap so I still felt kinda safe in my mind tower.
Next blog.
I quit. I quit the internet.
First of all, there was a song. And not the blaring hip hop loop that made me want to eat a lit firecracker, but a hauntingly sweet melody where a (probably) parisian woman whispered things in Finnish as a harpsichord danced about. It was beautiful. And there was Latin on the page (note to self: Must put some ancient greek on my page somewhere, I know enough of it - Augmented Fricative! Delta! Psi!) which automatically gives it depth. How many followers? Take a wild leaping guess.
WRONG! There were over 1700. And I couldn't even figure out how to add myself to their followers because it was in a different language. I did click on one of their adsense ads, though. It was cute. And you know, power to the people and all that.
So I guess it's good for all of us, when - for whatever nonexistent reason - we're certain we're god of the internet that we realize there are people out there who are better than us. Without even trying. They're like the stars in the sky that make up constellations. Those stars get noticed. But most of us...we're just the little winky ones you can't tell if they're lowflying airplanes or not. And no one cares. Into the black abyss. Of night...ancient greek things...i go...Hamlet and stuff...
That sounds a little more responsibility-avoidant than I intended; I just mean, once you've paid them and now they're trash...or if you're getting those “Pre-Qualified – you get a million dollars free of interest if you sign up for this crap credit card and then, as soon as you have the cash and/or stuff you so ignorantly thought would distract you from the true emptiness of existence, we will promptly begin to hound you ruthlessly and transmute the shame you could possibly have learned from, into utter defeat that will probably cause you to self-mutilate” credit cards ads or “this is not a coupon, it's a subtle lure for you to come into this junk shop that we abbrv BB&B and strain your eyes until you find something you could kind of possibly need someday if there was a zombie apocalypse and all of the answering machines in the world were broken, so you should buy it because today only you'll get almost $0.40 off...just buy it!" coupons
or cell phone ads, all of which probably have your name, address and social security number on them somewhere, and you just want them out of your foyer. Slash off the floor of your living room. In a neat stack. Slash thrown behind the couch.
So I have a step-by-step solution to rid yourself of this paperwork.
Recycle it! Okay, harder than it sounds, because if you're like me, you live in a ridiculous city that doesn't have a regular curbside recycling program and it costs like an extra $300 in civic taxes if you do want to get the special blue bin for your trash pickup, but if you don't have that kind of skrill just lying around (and your dumb city still doesn't recognize the Barter System) and there is a recycling plant, but it's 20 miles away in a scary, wobbly part of town where hobos with patchy facial hair hang around drinking their moonshine!
So, you know, recycling isn't always the first option, although it SHOULD be. Sorry to SHOULD all over you, but it's true.
Throw it away! Okay, again, harder than it sounds for a few reasons.
a). Aforementioned hobos (if you live in the wobbly parts of town) are probably sorting through your trash regularly and looking for items they can eat/use in some kind of internet pyramid scheme using your good name and (questionable) credit history.
So how do you avoid this?
b). in the kinds of dumb cities that don't have regular recycling programs and would get you to this Stage 2b level of a predicament, it is a given that anywhere you go, teenagers, hobos, children, orcs, telemarketers or other minions of evil are looking to steal your sensitive information and use it in online pyramid schemes. So you have to protect your trash pretty much everywhere you might live. Even nice, non-wobbly parts of town.
So, to keep all of us from going through the horror of having our good names dragged through the mud by guys in suits with dollar signs all over them, I have developed a step-by-step guide to safely dispose of unwanted paper documents with your personal informaysh all up on them.
Note: this is only to be used if you absolutely, positively cannot recycle your papers. Don't add to the gyre! Please, think of the children (the non evil ones).
Locate documents of Trashfulness:
Open and empty contents of regular plastic bag.
Note: this is to be used only if you cannot recycle the plastic bag, which can be done at any Whole Foods grocery store (and most other grocery stores nowadays).
Obtain additional items whose use has expired. Things such as:
triple-used kleenex
egg shells
46 year old 3/4-drank (drinken? I'm never clear on drink's past tense in the genitive) iced coffee with half & half and sugar in the raw and possibly honey that has been in the fridge for 46.8 years and is somehow not a fully sentient being by now as it is basically a creepy crawly bacteria cesspool.
crumpled receipts (not only good as distracting filler, but also need their own place to hide since possibly sensitive information is reflected therein regarding your proclivity for Jones soda)
pieces of sock felt (probably some between your toes right now!)
carrot, lemon peel and spinach “feces” leftover from juicing
band-aids that won't stick anymore
used tea leaves (used here means the leaves have been re-brewed maybe 11 times over the past week and if a British person so much as smelled them, they would shrink back in horror and then look at you crying and saying, “Why?” with their hand on their chest)
incense ash
empty jumbo-size South African wine bottle (this is more just to maliciously taunt hobos)
Mix any iteration of the above in with your sensitive documentation – making sure that the ugliest items are poking out of the top of the bag.
Dispose!
You can now sleep at night with the confidence of knowing your sensitive junk mail and old bills are safe from being perused due to your odd and disgusting rubbish.
I am so confident in this procedure's effectiveness, that I am giving it to you – Absolutely Free!
If you are not completely satisfied in the next 30 days, you can take me to court and sue me for a Million Dollars and the judge will throw it out of court because that is a ridiculous sum to sue over bad throwing away your garbage instructions. Express contract though it may be, you're asking for too much in compensation and besides, I'll tell you upfront I am basically only good for consulting on One Thing – starting an ice cream delivery service. Check yourself!
I feel it is my duty to fill out this survey as a representative of the human species. It's only fair. (note: Lunch ladies do not count as homo sapiens sapiens. Lab tests have concluded they are made only of hair nets, pudding and steamed up spectacles resting on broom handles, operated by highly adapted mice. DON'T BE FOOLED)
I don't know if I've properly expressed this yet, but I am having a torrid love affair with my juicer (the magical Omega 8005). The Ace is really the keeper of the juicer; he gives it hay and a good rub down after each energetic undertaking, and puts a blanket over it at night. I am like the willful horsemaster who pushes the juicer to its limits, taking it over higher and higher fences and through rougher and wilder country until it is finally able to achieve the greatness truly etched on its soul.
Today, for the first time this summer we got a watermelon. I was really freaked out because it was a big boy (about 15 pounds. We named it Jeffrey the Big Boy.) and I was fearful that the juicer couldn't take it. But I left it in the Ace's capable hands to get it ready for the ride, and I must say that, as always, the Omega did not disappoint.
I left the kitchen for about 5 minutes and upon my return, the Ace had already carved Jeff up into 4 massive pieces (each about 1 foot long, 6 inches deep---I'm not sure if that's the precise mathematic way in which one renders melon measuring, but just go with me). We both tucked in and the flavor was heavenly. All you could want and more from a summer watermelon. Succulent, bright fuschia dotted with seeds, and that earthy sweetness that makes your mouth act like a rabid weasel going at some type of smaller vermin that would be its prey.
Then, we started juicing. I was still enjoying my slice of Jeffrey (seriously, if someone had tried to ask for a bite, I would have snarled and tried to punch their throat off) when the Ace informed me that we were only using half of good old Jeffy - the remaining portion was still in the fridge! GASP!
Then, the juicing commenced. The Omega 8005 was a champ right from the get go. We were yielding about a cup & 1/2 of juice for each slice of melon. It was a tremendous achievement.
And then the tasting.
Imagine the flavor of Bubbilicious Watermelon Wave. Then forget that cuz that's not how watermelons tastes. THEN, imagine the best summer watermelon you ever had. Then Extrapolate that times 50. And then, add a drizzle of unicorn blood and some stardust. THAT is what fresh watermelon juice tastes like. It tastes like magic.
Once I came down from my cloud, we juiced 2 lemons, added 1/4 cup of fresh honey - et voila; the King of all drinks was born.
I encourage everyone to go out, find your own Jeffrey the Big Boy and start drinking his guts like NOW. You're basically just waiting to die unless you have tasted freshly made watermelon lemonade. This is where real living begins! (property of Tamachan87, not me)
I have watched Saving Private Ryan probably 300 times. It’s a good film and it’s shot in a shaky-cam style that, for the time (theatrically released in 1998) was fairly revolutionary, as it introduced “gritty realism” to battle scenes. There are lots of studly guys in it. I watched it every single day in freshman and sophomore year of high school. Literally, almost every day. I got ready to it. Like, put on my sluttish teen make-up to the beach scene at Normandy.
I think it desensitized me to war movies. Just movie violence in general. Really violence in general. I could probably watch someone getting their arm blown off across the street and just keep right on enjoying my Bugles.
It’s not something I’m proud of…and I think it might be kind of disturbing to people that I used to eat oatmeal while hot rolling my hair and watching Adam Goldberg get slowly stabbed. Or Giovanni Ribisi bleed to death from a machine-gun wound to the liver. Gross. But hey, it woke me up in time for 7:45 rubbish-teaching!
This confession is more about my shame at having attended public school. Don’t do it! CONFESSION.
Incidentally, I used to tell people Tom Hanks was my dad. In first grade. At a PUBLIC SCHOOL!
Come along - as I take you on a Life Journey that nicely correlates to a book that I read...
(property of PBS, not me)
A few years ago, the Ace was reading the Celestine Prophecy on google books. We talked about it off and on, since one of his main takeaways of the book was the idea of acidic and alkaline foods.
It's an interesting topic and it makes sense -- healthy foods like fruits and vegetables produce a more alkaline environment in the body; not-so-healthy foods like colas and refined breads produce a more acidic environment in the body. The distinction is important because the human body is naturally more alkaline and so in its natural state, is more inclined toward health. Things like cancer grow in acidic pH environments...obvious benefits of eating healthy, right? You get to be healthy and sans tumors!
So we kind of got into researching acidic/alkaline for a while and eventually, the Ace bought the book Raw Food Life Force Energy by Natalia Rose. I wanted to read it, but I was reading a few other things at the time - plus I think we had just gotten Metal Gear Solid 4 -but finally after about a year, I realized if I really wanted to benefit from any of it, I was going to have to read it myself.
Changed my life.
From about age 14, I always kind of needed to lose around 20 pounds.
When I read Rose's book, I finally realized why, no matter what, my body stubbornly refused. She outlines a method of eating that I am sure would revolutionize any lifestyle - quick exit combining and eating living foods.
Basically, most of us have grown up eating Dead Food. We may think the fruits and vegetables we're consuming from cans or in TV Dinners are relatively healthy (they're low in salt and saturated fat, right?) but in actuality, those foods are processed, refined, cooked to the point of having very little benefit. It's sort of like eating flavored ash. And the preservatives & unnatural flavorings injected in them to enhance taste (which, forgive me, Healthy Choice, but it doesn't work) are essentially petrochemicals.
Eating Living Food (food that has not been heated over 120 degrees F) is the First step on the path for the die-hard freezer section junkie. Fresh fruit and vegetables (the most alkaline of foods) have the highest "Life force energy" or high frequency vibrations (without getting too detailed into her research, food grown closest to the sun receives more of its wavelength/vibrational energy and cleans out our cells - much like sunshine feeds plants, plants transmute the sun's energy to living animals). This means raw fruits, tasty salads, unpasturized goat cheeses (bovine dairy is for making baby cows into big cows, but goat's milk and its cheese is much more digestible for humans - and in unpasturized form is alkaline!), and high quality fish. You can still eat cooked foods of course, but in moderation. And steamed vegetables usually walk a line between 100-110 degrees (steam is 212 degrees but the veggies don't get that hot), so I have a bowl of steamed carrots and broccoli almost every day with dinner.
Second, Proper Combining! Stop combining meat with bread or cheese with bread. And only eat fruit by itself - fruit should never be eaten as a dessert or within 3 hours of eating another food type. This is because stomach acid uses different enzymes to digest different foods. Fruit is actually digested in the small intestine if it is the only thing in your stomach, that's how quick it leaves the stomach. If you have meat and fruit in your stomach at once - the enzymes needed for both separate foods neutralize one another and leave putrefying, fermenting food to decompose in your stomach for 8+ hours. Plus if you also ate some bread with that same meal, you may be brewing moonshine in your tummy. And be ready for some butt hurt tomorrow.
Check out Natalia Rose's blog and her books for much more detailed information and eating plans. I just wanted to share since this method of eating and living has become an integral part of my life and has really given me a lot to rejoice over.
But don't take my word for it!
(Property of PBS, not me)
Note: I realize this episode has nothing to do with food or healthy lifestyles (quite the opposite in fact)...but of all the Reading Rainbow clips I could find, this one has a lot of Levar talking & not annoying 5 year olds pretending to read. Also for my friend, JE.
James Coburn is one of the coolest actors ever. He always looks like he's ready to throw down with a mountain lion if he has to, but halfway through he'd probably be like, "Screw this - I'll buyya beer!" And then they become best friends and tear up and down the countryside, stirring up trouble in a drunken cloud of good-natured revelry wherever they go.
If you've never seen Duck, You Sucker (also billed as A Fistful of Dynamite) do yourself a favor. Get a Netflix account and watch it. It's amazing. Plus, it contains 2.5 hours of what is probably the best, funniest, most enjoyable, honestly awful accents ever portrayed in a major motion picture by the dainty Rod Steiger.
He really gets going around the 1:35 mark.
In spite of (and in part Due To) that accent, it's a truly moving and genius movie and one of my favorites.
In my mind, if Chibi met James Coburn, he would instantly fall into a Rod Steiger-ish accent. You know, just to make Coburn feel at home. Like he was back in the American southwest, shooting movies and chumming around with drunken mountain lions.
I actually have a few today. Seriously, we're all gonna get stinking, filthy rich.
1).Meat Shakes.
Sell themselves, right?
2). Ice cream delivery service. It’s like pizza delivery, but instead – it’s ice cream. Ice Cream takeout. I am just blowing my mind with outrageous brilliance right now. Why hasn’t anyone done this? Let me set the scene.
It’s Thursday night. You’ve had a long day, your feet hurt and you just finished your Hamburger Helper while catching up on some work emails. (you workaholic!...but lovely shawl)
You need to relax and your favorite Marx Brother’s comedy just became available on Watch Instantly. Some ice cream would really help you unwind. In your mind you see this
It's tantalizing you like some kind of oasis mirage in a desert (plus, I think Hamburger Helper has hypnogogic properties - you need to start eating real food, OK?). But there’s no way you’re going back out again into the fray…it's insane out there. Everyone sweaty and mean, brazenly grabbing and pushing - ready to death-fight you for Ice cream! Everyone!
Not to mention you’re already so cozy. Plus, you’re single/drunk/your significant other is as cozy as you are and there’s no way you’re getting any ice cream unless someone brings it to you. You’ll even buy. You would spend $10-$400 if someone brought you some ice cream right now.
But wait! They Will!...TA DA! Money in the bank. And it’s for such a worthy cause. (me eating ice cream is the noblest of not remotely noble causes)
For me, as I'm sure it is for everyone, the ice cream Roller Coaster is quite an episodic wandering for the soul. Because you really want it, and then you don't have any...but you wanted it enough that you get some!! It's just such a cleansing journey - basically like Dante's Inferno but for the modern warrior. I think I can illustrate:
When I experience Ice Cream, I hear and see exactly this
Ice Cream delivery will help bring love and joy to this lonely world. Forever's gonna start tonight.
