I want ice cream.
I tell you this in the hopes that you are near enough to me that you will come to my house with ice cream in hand, sometime in the next 12 minutes, drop it off, and then LEAVE.
But since that's not going to happen, I'm going to have to try and talk DadGuy into making an ice cream run.
Which means that I should just forget about it right now.
You see, DadGuy and I have very different ice cream palettes... he has the nerve to like PEANUTS.
When I was a young lass and made my list of qualities that I wanted in a future husband, I seem to have left the part about where he agrees with me that peanuts are gross.
Has a truck? Check.
Makes me laugh? Check.
Thinks peanuts are disgusting? .......
Now I know that you're thinking either:
A) Peanuts are NOT GROSS (in which case you would be mistaken) or
B) You had a list?
To which I reply, DUH.
I AM A LIST MAKER.
It is in my genes.
You think I mastered the art of color coding and chart making in just the last few years?
Perish the thought!
This is an art that has been acquired over DECADES of obsessive compulsive tendencies.
I have lists about lists, which would be funny, if it weren't all true.
But all this information is besides the point which is this: I need ice cream.
PS. Why don't I go get it, you ask? Because I already put on my pajamas, which means I am not wearing a bra. And as you all know, when the bra is off for the day, it does not go back on. The end.
