Last night, I did something terrible.
I opened the freezer and scanned the shelves, searching for something to satisfy my sweet tooth. My heart leaped when I spotted the pint of Breyer's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream. Smiling to myself, I set the treasure on the counter and went to make sure no one was around. It was almost 11 p.m., so no one was awake. There was a devious glint in my eye as I grabbed a spoon and started picking out the cookie dough chunks. I mean, the cookie dough is obviously the best part. Why waste time and calories on eating the actual cream when you can simply dig for dough, right?
Five minutes later, the pint of ice cream looked as if it had been hit by an F-5 twister. But I kept going. What began as a harmless hunt for cookie dough turned into a full-blown ice cream excavation. Melted vanilla ice cream covered my robe and the countertop, and my silver spoon was bent from all of the digging it had to endure. All I could think about was the next piece, the next chunk, the next cookie dough sighting. My mind became a one-way street, lined with cookie dough. I ditched the spoon and stuck my hands into the container. Within seconds, they were completely numb, but I didn't care. Grabbing the entire ball of coldness in my two hands, I did the unthinkable. I crossed the line from girl to bum. I stuck my face in the pile of ice cream and ate every single lasting piece of cookie dough.
And then there was only ice cream remaining. I wiped my chin, turned on the garbage disposal, and tossed the empty container in the trash. Was it worth it? Heck yes.