Dear Ms. Yee,
Your tapioca coconut freeze tastes like, how do I put this delicately, SHIT. What should I do?
Thirsty in Evanston
Dear Thirsty,
Suck it down and cry me summa those sweet, hot tears.
JY
When I handed the plucky deliveryman my 4.50 a few hours ago, gentle reader, I expected a freeze unlike any other I’ve tasted. I expected happiness in a cup on par with–perhaps surpassing, even–their pineapple and kiwi freezes.
Upon taking my first drag of coconut freeze, however, I discovered that the stuff tasted abominable. With altruism flowing from my heart like you wouldn’t believe, I proffered some to George. Now George is usually open-minded about foods and the like, so when he voiced his utter disgust, I felt a little better. And then, like some ascetic’s doobie, the cup o’ fun went over to Esther, who praised it as lacking all taste. I brought the cup to its final destination–Carl’s room–and Carl actually refused to drink any, instead asking me whether I was ingesting some kind of paste (as I used to do through all of grade school, naturally).
So what did this drink lack? Taste, for one thing, along with aesthetic appeal. The freeze truly lacked all taste, and I wondered whether the scoundrels who made this crapola simply put ice and milky water into a cup. Visually, the treat resembled rat droppings framed against a white, white sky. Oh, the humanity! I will now proceed to:
1. Vomit
2. Cry myself to sleep.
One of my cousins killed Santa Claus for me at an early age, but I remember strangling the Joy of Halloween with my own two hands. Don’t get me wrong, gentle reader–although I enjoy gorging myself with fruit candy as much as the next seven-year-old, Hallo-conoclasm descended on me like a sack of poisoned candy in the autumn of third grade.
My mum shuttled me to the drugstore the evening before and I purchased–don’t hold your breath, dear reader, because you’ll pass out–this and this. That’s about it. This would be my swan song, my fond middle finger to a holiday that put children in danger (ever heard of razor-flavored Mary Janes?) and that made the practice of popping Jolly Ranchers inefficient.
Filled with cynicism the next afternoon, I donned my “glasses” and my pitchfork and hit the streets. Mother after mother sighed with disappointment as I rang doorbell after doorbell.
Ding!
“C’mon,” Mother X said, “that’s not a real costume.”
“Nope!” I replied, extending my bag toward her.
Ding!
“Oh, that’s a nice–” started (and aborted) Mother Y.
“Thank you!” More candy.
That’s right, gentle reader. I got the same amount of candy with a fourth of the effort expended by my peers. Joy of Halloween? Where? What are you talking about?
I’m feeling the same way tonight, you see. Whatever fancy I had for academia left me sometime between Friday and Saturday. Jane Austen’s megathriller Sense and Sensibility sits on my desk, mocking me in some doubtless pansy-ass way. I’m this close to flouting the Joy of Academia and coming to class with bits of Sparknotes pasted on myself for the benefit of my peers. I’m this close to handing in this puppy as my real paper. Well, I’m off to find something blunt to bang my head on.
So, gentle reader, what do I have on the docket for today? It’s Friday night, so I’m supposed to tell you that I’ve ahead of me an evening of liquid “refreshment,” debauchery fantastic, and deviancies in spades. I will go downtown tonight, live it up at numerous clubs, and then forget all about you.
Actually, I’ve none of these things planned. I’m sitting in front of my computer right now, looking for gainful employment, and I’m being serenaded by one of my favorite artists. A content dork I am, dear reader.