If my last voyage out to New York was the trip of cupcakes, then my most recent trip to San Francisco was the jaunt of ice cream.
Because in the few days that I spent there, I ate a lot of it. I can process dairy far better than the next gal (particularly if the next gal is, say, my friend Giselle, who’s entirely allergic to the stuff) but by the end of my trip I was a farty, bloated mess.
I mean, more so.
Of course, the ice cream was not entirely to blame. There was also pizza, and pasta, and copious quantities of cheese. But mostly, it was the frozen confection that did me in.
In spite of all of that, I regret absolutely nothing. It was a moral act, gobbling up all that ice cream. I sacrificed myself so that others might live without crippling gastrointestinal pain as a result of downing a gallon or so of frozen, churned milk. My work is still not finished, but I will share my findings with you, with the caveat that these results are not entirely conclusive. There are more sprinkles to pile on, more scoops to lick, more cones to gobble.
That sounded dirty. I did not mean for it to.