31 October 2013

We All Scream For Cauliflower

I ain't no damn smarter.
Birthdays are a scam.

So, out and around along the way, I've found a few things to be worthy of my scorn. Like shoes. Don't know why society insists I cover my adorable feet, first of all. But mostly I just plain don't like to wear shoes. If given the choice between hot sand on top of a gravel walkway and putting on a dumb 'ol pair of sneakers, I'm already running away from your foot locker.
Nope, no shoes.
Can't fucking stand 'em.

Footwear fussiness aside, my ire has also recently been aimed at ice cream.
Yep, ice cream.
Don't like it, don't need it, don't want it.
A devious process, freezing milk and feeding it to kids as a treat. And them sorry sunsabitches just eat that junk right up. Chasing after the Ice Cream Man, lapping up the "flavors." I'VE GOT YOUR FLAVOR RIGHT HERE, JUNIOR, AND IT'S COW TIT.

Ima take a minute here, so you can quit sputtering like a dickweed and we can move on.

Shoes and ice cream.
Two of the biggest evils that I am faced with.
There was something else, what was it again?
Oh yes, a tendency for incredibly destructive behavior caused by deeply ingrained insecurity and a side of self-loathing topped with an inability to process emotion or feeling.
But that's a mouthful, so I just call it "being Joleen Doreen."

Look, it's just NOT a snack, ok? You've expunged the fluid from the mammaries of sweet bovine Bessie and covered it in fudge. If you did that to any other mammal, you would be a freak. HOW THEM SPRINKLES TASTE, JUNIOR? A LITTLE LIKE COW TIT?

I hate ice cream.
Cold. Distant. All smug in it's churned-ness.
Ice cream know you want it. It KNOWS. Ice cream is fully aware that you're not going to get that ice cream taste from anywhere else. Whataya gonna do? Eat frozen yogurt? Pfffftttt. Nope, you're going to have ice cream and ICE CREAM KNOWS IT.

Ick. Got all metaphory in here.
Stupid ice cream.
Well, just so you guys know, there are other things out there. It doesn't have to be the arctic incubation of a farm animal's teet. Dessert options are all around us. I've recently found some wonderful new things. Purple cauliflower, for example.
Oh, it's real.

See, hear. (Sea, here? C, ear?)
I may be a little outside the "norm;" and, yes, it may be that I'm not socially "competent." Also, I am not a fan of "people," I don't like "happiness," I have deep "trust" and "commitment" issues, I think "men" are fucking ruining "everything," and I might not know how to use "quotes."
But I understand the things in life that appeal to me are not the same as what others desire. And vice versa.
As with ice creama.
Ice cream just isn't for me. It freezes my brain and wreaks havoc on my guts. And more importantly, it tastes like I'm getting the raw end of a cow's tit. Hell, ever since I was knee-high to a grasshopper I've known a broad who was being milked for your fanciful indulgence.
They should name the flavor after the cow it came from. 
Buttercup's Butterscotch. 
Daisy's Dark Chocolate. 
Soon-to-be-steak's Sinful Cinnamon.

I'm not a vegetable-lover. More just a free-milk-hater. Back home, it was easy to spot who was trying to pay for the cow and who was looking to be handsy just to score an instant treat. Round these parts it seems like every Vinny, Tony, and Donnie is trying to sell you frozen water and call it dessert. Hell, I'm not much on ice cream to begin with, let alone this twisted amalgamation that sweets have become.

Ugh. Brain freeze.

I don't know where I always go so wrong. But I know I'm probably not wearing shoes when it happens.