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So, You Just Ate An Entire Pint Of Ice Cream

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It could be a Monday. Or even a Wednesday. Hell, it’s been heard to happen on a Sunday.

Maybe you had a bad day. A bad week. A bad couple of months.

You got fired. You quit. You got cheated on. You’ve reached a low point in your finances and are scraping by like a college kid on noodles and Lean Cuisines. You suffer from seasonal depression. You’ve accidentally gained a bunch of weight and show no signs of stopping. You had to put your dog or cat or hamster down.

Whatever the reason might be to do what you’re about to do, you have one. And you’re sticking to it.

You really didn’t mean for it to happen. It was a routine grocery store run, just like any other. Lettuce? Check. Produce that will go bad in a few days, but that you’ll make a gallant effort to use? Check. A sampling of some weird looking health bar? Check. “That’s a lot of health,” you think to yourself, as you stand somewhere between the frozen fish and packaged lunch meats. “Maybe I’ll just casually roll over to the frozen treats. Just to see…”

Ice cream: the frozen delight that will most likely solve world peace one day. It’s a delicacy you only Tom Haverford or Donna Meagle to when the need is dire.

And this need–this clawing, intense, inescapable need–is dire as fuck.

So, you go for it. You commit, browsing all the offerings slowly, with purpose. You skip over the ice cream bars–they’re child’s play, and you need the real deal. Gelato could be good, but then again, it might be too light for the heaviness you’re feeling (both in and around your gut, but also in your chest).

No. You need the real deal. The intense shit. The mixture of dairy, sugars, and God knows what else that you’re convinced will be the only temporary cure for your mood today.

So, you get a pint. Not just any pint–you get the kind of pint that involves the flavor you secretly have wet dreams about almost every single night.

It’s in your cart, you’re heading for the checkout line, and there’s no turning back.

When you arrive home, you do the adult thing and place your special new friend in its right place: the freezer. You’re sure you’ll invite it to hang out at some point tonight, but right now’s not the time. Not yet.

Well, at least that’s what you thought. That was the plan. Until an odd time, like 4:45 p.m., rolls around. You swear you heard it calling to you, beckoning you to have a taste. Just a small, baby spoonful of its delight.

You don’t screw with rationing it out into a small bowl. No. It’s your pint. You bought it. You own it. You can do with it what you want. You go in for the kill with a spoon.

Direct spoon to pint contact is the only way.

One taste. Two tastes. Three tastes, four. Suddenly, you’re halfway through so you pause briefly. “Am I really going to do this?” you ask yourself. “I mean, I don’t feel full. I don’t feel gross. I can easily and happily put the rest of this down, no regrets.”

You sit there for a moment, becoming frighteningly aware of your situation. You’re on your couch. You’re wrapped like a burrito in your favorite blanket, which is most likely covered in a mixture of alcohol stains and human stains. “Parks and Recreation” reruns keep you company via Netflix in the background. It’s just you and this pint. This pint and you.

It’s now or never. Do or die.

Suddenly, you’re unstoppable. Each spoonful of sweet, creamy, cookies and creaminess tastes more delicious than the last. You see the bottom of the container, in all its white glory. You smirk–you’ve made it. You’re so close. Almost there.

The last bite swallowed, you decide to add insult to injury by desperately scraping up the remaining juices of liquid ‘scream that flow around the bottom of the container like tiny rivers of delicious sustenance.

You set the now empty container onto the nearest surface, sit back, and reflect on what you’ve done. Maybe you pick the container up to calculate the amount of calories and fat you’ve just managed to ingest in less than 10 minutes. You smirk again. You’re proud. You did it. And you don’t give a flying fuck about what mental, physical, or emotional consequences could arise now.

Because now, you have a piece to write from it. A piece reflecting your journey from despair to temporary, indulgent happiness.

Pint life, y’all. Do it for the piece.

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Emma G

Emma is a female with a vagina and, subsequently, often writes things other vaginas (and sometimes weiners) find super relatable. She is a 20something who loves eating, buying clothes she doesn't need, and wearing lipstick. You can find 4+ years of her rantings on her blog: www.emmasthing.com

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