PMS: The Mother(fucker) of Invention

If my pizza place had any sense, they would sell my dinner tonight as some kind of PMS Special. Like a McDonalds combo — you could just ask for the PMS #5 and it’d be nachos and a chocolate milkshake. Or there could be a column system: one salty and one sweet, with an optional drizzle of our house-blended mansplainer tear reduction.

Yeah, this should definitely be a thing.

In which Wendy’s betrays me.

My friends really know how to support me when it matters.

Exhibit A: this text exchange while I was endeavoring to stress eat…

Me: “‘Sorry, we’re out of chocolate Frosty, we only have vanilla.’ Oh. So you only have heresy? How dare you, Wendy’s? How. Dare. You.”

Friend 1: “What fresh hell is this?”

Friend 2: “BURN IT DOWN!!!!!”

Me: “They shouldn’t even be allowed to CALL that a Frosty. Hmph. (I’ve never had it, it might be delicious. Just not today.)”

Friend 2: “No. Vanilla? Fuck that shit. That’s not a goddamn Frosty. I love vanilla, but that is just blasphemy.”

Friend 1: “Frosty=chocolate. Anything else is a weird extra soft serve ice cream.”

Me: “I adore you both and will be blogging this discussion in the foreseeable future.”