That’s it, I’m making one.
I have officially reached the peak of my albino pigmentation. My skin is the absence of color. Just wait until it snows. I’m going to blend into my surroundings like white on rice in a glass of milk on a paper plate in a snow storm. As far as a blizzard is concerned, I may as well be wearing a camoflauge vest in the middle of the forest. Grrreat.
I just had an urge that could not be supressed to make myself a mug of hot cocoa. Not because hot chocolate sounds especially delicious at this point in time, but because my room temperature has reached absolute zero and my extremities are freezing. I would love to hold a steaming cup of hot cocoa right now. Swiss Miss, comin’ atcha.
I glance at the expiration date: “Nov. 01.” Awesome. Today is the 17th. I wasn’t about to give up, however. I’m a risk taker. I take risks.
It’s what I do.
I gave the jug a quick shake. It didn’t appear to be lumpy or thicker than average. I even dared to sniff it. It was questionable, but it didn’t make me want to projectile vomit (immediately). I wasn’t about to taste-test this potentially expired milk myself, however, so I went on a little excursion in the hallways to find myself an unsuspecting victim to be my guinea pig. It wasn’t long before I ran into Kurt (who by the way is from France, and everyone knows the French are idiots anyway). He didn’t cooperate.
After much self-motivation, I tasted it myself. I was taking my chances with this one. I didn’t blow chunks, and it tasted alright, and I just hoped on the inside that it was supposed to say “November 10” but the last zero didn’t fit. A girl can dream. Just ask Martin.
Alright, so what you fellow readers out there don’t know is that I’ve been typing this story mid-process of my hot chocolate fiasco. Moments ago I heard the microwave beep, so I went into the kitchen to retrieve my steamy cup of cocoa. Of course the milk had boiled over the mug and had collected in a giant steaming milky puddle in the microwave, underneath the rotary plate and everything. Sweet. If the old milk didn’t smell before, it sure as hell is going to now.
I’ve gone through far too much work for this hot chocolate. I’m probably going to knock it over and not even get the chance to enjoy it. Blast.
hopefully I don’t puke in my sleep later.
…where are the mini marshmallows
(P.S. I hate that it’s not spelled “marshmEllow.”)
“Solid, real solid.”