Oh jagged gelato spoon, how I hate you. At first, you seemed so harmless, just a plastic utensil fabricated for my favourite Italian dessert. But as I’ve learned, looks can be deceiving.
I placed that wicked spoon, stacked with gelato, into my eager mouth. But as I slid it out, my upper lip got a sudden wake-up call. Could it be? Surely, I must be imagining it. Nobody would design a plastic spoon with edges so sharp.
I took another bite. The spoon bit back. My lemon vanilla dessert now had a swirl of red flowing through it: blood red. I should’ve stopped right there. But the gelato was just too good. I attempted to improvise. I turned the spoon upside down. This only achieved one thing: a laceration of my bottom lip. Hm, this must be how people become masochists.
Pleasure, then pain. Pleasure, then pain. What have I done to deserve such torture? Have I angered the frozen-food god? I’ve only indulged in the finest premium ice creams. My freezer is always full. Wait a minute, I did recently purchase a pint of non-dairy frozen dessert. It was made with almonds, but it tasted like cow piss. I eventually threw it out. This is about the frozen cow piss thing, isn’t it? I learned my lesson, I swear. There must be some way I can make it up to you. I could drive a Good Humour truck for a month. Or maybe build you a shrine out of used popsicle sticks. Just give me a sign!
The automatic ice maker just released another load into my freezer. Is that a sign? What does that mean? Am I forgiven? Or have I angered you? Is this your idea of some kind of a sick joke, making me fear one of life’s few pleasures?
And so I sit here, confused, running my tongue over the wounds in my mouth, knowing there’s only one thing that can soothe my shredded flesh. Yeah, you guessed it, more gelato.
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