Not admitting anything

my darling friend may or may not have left this box of jiggly thighs delightfully fudgy ice cream in my freezer:



It was a creamy symphony of fudge chunks (Does pairing the words “fudge” and “chunk” produce a Pavlov’s salivating reflex for you too? Not really you say? What’s that? Frothy drool in the left corner of my mouth? Sorry.) and the most adorable miniature chocolate-y sox swimming in a peanut butter and chocolate ice cream. I may or may not have just polished off the remaining half bit in the box.

I refuse to let the Catholic guilt get to me.

I’m good enough. I’m smart enough. And doggone it, people like me.

I can only hope she reads this blog very soon and returns to my freezer to remove the other box of mint chocolate chip ice cream she also left here and replace it with carrots and cucumbers instead. I can not be held responsible whilst it sings my name like a seductive siren...beckoning me towards the rocky beaches of my kitchen, only to lull me into a sugar-induced coma and leave me lying bewildered and bloated on the cold tile with only a chocolate mustache as evidence of my sins.