Asphyxisatiation

I am the world’s biggest ice cream fan, and I have the keys to the Ben and Jerry’s factory down the road.

I've loved ice cream for as long as I can remember. I would savour it whenever I was allowed even the smallest micro-bite; every dessert was a golden dream come true. Especially when I dreamed about it. Other boys would come from miles around to talk about their ice cream, and we’d talk about the various flavours, dream about the future ones we had yet to explore, and plan how we were going to taste the ones we’d seen on TV, all of it magical, mysterious. Elusive.

I still see those same boys, now men, sniffing around the ice cream parlors. Some have settled down with one flavour, and even started mixing and concocting flavours of their own. They seem happy. Others however are in constant pursuit of it, the more ice cream the better. Never satisfied. Quantity over quality, and then quality over quantity. They share their stories of the sparing few and tacky tasters of the previous weekend and I flatter them with attention too sheepish to mention my endless bounty; paddling pools full of ice cream containing paddling pools full of ice cream.

And then, slowly, walking the lonely walk back to my ice cream factory atop Lonely Hill, and ascending the stairs passing the huge and endless variety of shapes and flavours on my way to my bedroom. Chocolate. Vanilla. Strawberry. Strawberry shortcake. Cinnamon buns. Key lime pie. Breasts. Rainbow assortment, banana split.

Rocky road.

All readily available and in endless supply; at whatever time I wish and at my beck and call. My initial prayers have been answered times ten, and now, I, being unbelievably and predictably mortal and human, am in great danger of becoming restless and disinterested. Damnit, I would share if only I knew how.

Ah well, I'm enjoying the sweet torments while they last. Desire and Lust can't outrun me for long.