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31 Flavors

And here comes a rant that has been running through my head all night…

I am soooo sick of people telling me what I should want and how I should feel about relationships etc now that I’ve exited this marraige.

It’s like I haven’t been to Baskin Robbins in 15 years.

I’m standing there in front of the 31 flavors.

I see the rainbow sherbert.



I fucking love rainbow sherbert!

I always have.

The orange and pineapple and raspberry and the way they are perfectly swirled together…

“I’ll take one large, no, make that two large scoops of rainbow sherbert, please.”

Then the store goes quiet and some guy says:

“Try the rocky road first.”

“But I don’t like rocky road, at all,” I reply.

Pretty soon everyone in the store is trying to make me order what they had.

They are telling me that:

My taste buds have probably changed.

The flavors are different these days.

Get the healthier option.

No! Indulge yourself.

They tell me that if haven’t been given a choice in ice cream for 18 years then how could I ever know what I like?

“You aren’t ready to order! I’ve been here every week for seven years and I still don’t know what to order!” one woman pleads before bursting in tears and fleeing the store.

Another lady rises to her feet. She has a bitter look on her face.

“A guy like you brought me here once,” she says. “He swore he was ready for the peanut butter cup. Fucking asshole didn’t even finish his ice cream. Now? I only come here alone because of men like you.”

Shit, then the girl behind the counter is forcing samples on me. She’s handing me one little pink spoon after another.

Finally I fucking lose it.




The girl scooping the ice cream just stares at me.

“I once listened to people like you,” I said. “I walked out with a gallon of strawberry cream. Guess what? Turns out I’m allergic to strawberries. The shit almost killed me. I’ve been driving past here every day for 15 years. I know what I want. I know what I need in my life.”

Dead silence.

A man, shaking his head, quietly says “Maybe he needs an iced coffee…”

“Fuck this place,” I mumble as I leave and vow to NEVER go back.

About Suburban War Lord

Suburban War Lord

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