When I was twelve, my parents separated. The day before my mum moved out she made a huge dish of macaroni cheese and put the leftovers in the fridge. Dinner time the next day, my brother and sister had both gone out, so there was just me and my dad sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves. Neither of us knew how to cook back then, so all there was to eat was that leftover macaroni. My dad was too upset to eat, so I microwaved a bowl and ate it by myself while my dad cried in the living room.
Something that could have been wonderful, but for that momentary lapse of attention:
A gallon of rocky road ice cream.
Eaten directly out of the bucket with a small spoon.
After you've gotten home from being fired.
And found a note from your wife saying she's left you for the ice cream man.
At least the ice cream man left you some ice cream.
He didn't. You bought it on your way home to share with your wife - it's her favorite.
You know this because the ice cream man recommended it to you.
You say collaboration like it's a bad word.
The ocean is full of the stuff of nightmares and, no thanks to all that water, you can't even kill it with fire.
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