I Scream

I want to write but don’t know what I should write about. It’s early July, and I feel like I haven’t done much since the winter semester came to an end. I have an urgency to do something but nowhere to apply it. I’ve taken on too many hobbies that I don’t even know which ones I’m good at. I throw things out a little before the expiry date because it’s better to be safe than sorry. Have you ever seen cheese come out of a milk box? I have, and it was terrifying.

I bought a dresser on Facebook Marketplace yesterday. It cost me $80 to pick up a dresser that barely fit in my trunk. I had to tie it down with Christmas-decorated twine supplied by the seller. Every speed bump left my trunk nodding like a bobblehead on a washing machine. It was a 15-minute drive home, and during that 15-minute drive, I saw four dressers on the side of the road, free and in better condition than the one tied to my trunk. I passed by a cop car and smiled nervously, as if that would take their attention away from my car. I’d lock myself in that dresser if I were to get a ticket.

I had too much ice cream this month. I’ve developed a habit of walking to the closest Dairy Queen, waiting in line by myself, and acting like I didn’t just walk 30 minutes to get ice cream alone. I swing my house keys around as if I parked my apartment down the street and sometimes whistle to whatever is playing on the speakers. I’ve noticed that depending on the employee, a Reese’s Blizzard comes out drastically different, and I had to start explaining how I like it done. I don’t enjoy explaining my Blizzard preference—it’s not something I look forward to.

Once I get my Blizzard, I can either park my ass on the bench and watch the friends and couples wait in line together, or walk home while eating, which in my mind means I’d burn the ice cream off by the time I get home—which couldn’t be less factual. I enjoy my solo Dairy Queen trips. I often leave my phone at home and allow my thoughts to consume me.

During my time in line, leading up to my Blizzard explanation, I listen to friends and couples discuss what they’ll be having. “The Peanut Buster looks so good,” and he’s right—the Peanut Buster is amazing. And if they don’t clean up their act at the Dairy Queen on Jarry, I’ll be forced to give up my Blizzard order and opt for the Pbuster.

I’ve done these adventures so many times that if I decide to walk home while eating the Blizzard, I know exactly which street I’ll finish it on, and that usually makes me happy. I don’t like when they flip the Blizzard upside down before giving it to me. It’s as if they’re doing a magic trick and that my Blizzard will disappear and end up in my pocket.

The energy behind an ice cream counter is electric. Take Iconoglace, for example—a great place to go if money flies out of your asshole. Iconoglace isn’t somewhere I can go alone because the line is usually stretched out to the start of the block. Being alone in a line for that long could have residual effects on my mental health. I’d rather not take the chance. I go there with friends, and no matter how hard I try, I always end up spending $12.

I once told the person at the counter, “I just want a simple ice cream cone with simple ice cream, dipped in simple chocolate,” and they told me, “That’ll be $12.50.” I shake my head and look up at the ice cream gods for further explanation on why this keeps happening to me.

I went last week, and it was a very hot day. I ordered a waffle cone with vanilla ice cream dipped in Belgian hazelnut chocolate. I made sure to take out a loan before going and paid it all upfront. From the time it took for me to grab my ice cream out of the maker’s hands and walk to their little outdoor balcony, the hazelnut coating had melted and my hands were covered in chocolate, which drove my OCD to another dimension. I grabbed napkins and an empty plastic cup and placed my ice cream in the cup. I watched it melt, dripping to the bottom of the glass.

I looked around, and everyone had their ice cream in little plastic cups with little spoons. “Cowards,” I thought. Ice cream is supposed to be messy, complicated, and inconvenient—not a joyride where you get to lift both your hands above your head. I licked my cone as I watched the others lick their little plastic spoons.

By the end of my cone, I was a mess, both physically and mentally. During my final licks, there was a kid sitting next to me screaming at a group of birds. He was screaming “RAWR” like a fucking jackass. I didn’t enjoy his presence and looked at his mom to see if she would do anything about it. All she did was smile at me as if that could fix my bleeding ears.

I’ve done the math, and I enjoy 8 out of the 10 kids I meet. I’ve done the math on adults, and I enjoy 3 out of the 10 adults I meet. That must mean that somewhere along the way, most of us become assholes.

I don’t want to steer too far away from the central topic, so I’ll bring this to a close. I love ice cream, and I’ll love it until it kills me.