I am writing to you from the cluttered aftermath of what might have been a normal, quiet evening at home, had it not been for homemade cherry ice cream. It all started with a couple of margaritas (still working on those limes!) which is really when things got fuzzy. I do remember and totally condone the Chipotle take-out that followed but after that it’s anyone’s guess.
In the cruel, condemning light of morning I see waffle cones with curious bite marks, strewn across the kitchen counter in a constellation significant of only the fiercest, most crass of midnight binges. Spoons lie littering the sink, still thickly coated with dairy. German films on VHS are stacked on the coffee table. What happened here last night!?