I'm an addict. Which is to say I was in Southern Connecticut yesterday, ate a huge dinner of fried seafood and remarked that I would never eat again. At the time I was serious. Returning home, I kept my decree and did not stop. Instead I drove straight home.
Around eight, while watching Iron Chef America, I finally began geting itchy. The chef make a wonderful looking tofu custard, which immediately activated my addiction. I shook, and commented I needed to go back on my promise. Then I promptly set off in search of a blizzard.
We were all sitting in the cold, sterile room. Most of us were shaking, in desperate need for our fix. My addiction hasn't beccome that bad, so I merely moved my fingers in my pocket. A woman in front of me had it so bad that she was literally dancing, twirling around and dancing about how excited she was to be getting her ice cream. She was simultaneously screaming at the employees for taking too long and planning what blizzard she was going to order next time. I checked several times to make sure she wasn't just a large child.
I've inherited this problem from my mother who, after a huge German buffet in Epcot, announced she wanted to go to Dairy Queen. We mostly sat around watching her eat a vanilla cone. I went looking for the bible which seems to reside in all southern Dairy Queens. Personally, I like my blizzard blended with a touch of scripture.