The PistachiNO Ice Cream Hypothesis

Some of you might remember, when I was “dating” Old Young Man, that I’m such a girlfriend by nature I bought a pint of his favorite ice cream and put it in my freezer, so after he had sufficiently pleasured me, he could have snacks. (Ice cream: the glutton’s gold star!)

Except that was 6 months ago, and we “broke up” when I realized yet again that I am damaged and unlovable. (Ahem. Or that we didn’t have anything in common, even sexually.)

Anyway. I’m cleaning my kitchen, and I noticed the ice cream in the back of the freezer. While it pains me to throw it out (Ben & Jerry’s, bitches — only the finest for my concubines!), it’s been 6 months. So there’ve been six menstrual cycles and countless feelings-eating days, and not once have I been desperate enough to eat this ice cream. (Maybe pistachio ice cream is my rock bottom?) Also, not one person who’s been in my apartment since Christmas has wanted this ice cream. You know why? Because fucking terrible people eat pistachio. I will use it as a future boyfriend barometer.*

PistachiNO, people.

*It’s a joke. Don’t ruin it.

No one likes a bacontease.



What guy is gonna walk into my apartment and say, “OMG, it smells like bacon in here, yum! Oh. You don’t have bacon? Just a candle? Well, that is perfectly acceptable. Let us snuggle.”

NO. For the price of a big Yankee Candle — $30 — do you know how much fucking ACTUAL bacon I could buy? And then a guy would walk into my place and be like, “OMG, it smells like bacon in here, yum! Oh, look, there is a HUGE plate of LITERAL bacon! You are awesome! When I have had my fill of bacon, I shall pleasure you orally and then go get you some ice cream.”