Really super

So, after finally realizing that the Cold Stone right down the street is not the same establishment as the godforsaken Marble Slab where they sing and dance and act ridiculous and I get really embarrased for them - and embarassed for myself because when I want ice cream, it's usually because I've just like, given up completely and I want it quietly, like can you please just assist me in your inside voice without alerting everyone that I'm a giant fat-ass? and then I light myself on fire right there in the store - I made R accompany me there for a cup of Cake Batter ice cream, or, as I like to call it, The Shit.

Somehow we got on the topic of: you know the only thing that would make this better? A tiny little bit of really cold whiskey and then that turned into: you know when I've had a really bad day? Is when you come home and I'm blending a pint of Cake Batter ice cream with a pint of Jack Daniels, which led to: do you know why we don't have working blender? Because of that time a bunch of girlfriends and I blew the wiring on the thing with our furious margarita-making. With smoke and everything.

I'm really something.