Burn Victim

It's November, and it's cold outside.  And because there's only tile in this house, it's also cold inside.  I would get a blanket, but I've succeeded in wrapping my legs up in a way that (a) allows me to keep my feet somewhat warm and (b) makes them fall asleep to where if I tried to walk I would stumble around like Bambi.

What a retard.

This winter chill did not come about overnight--it came overnight several days ago (if you thought women were bipolar you should see our weather patterns).  Yesterday I went to Starbucks and ordered a peppermint hot chocolate, hoping the cocoa would warm my tummy and hold the cold air at bay.  It turned out it was the barista's favorite hot drink too, and she put on the perfect amount of whipped cream for any hot chocolate lover (the ratio of cream to drink should be in the neighborhood of 2:8).  This was turning out to be the best trip to Starbucks ever. 

She finished making my cocoa and asked me how it was.  Normally, I'd wait a bit and try to let my drink cool off, but she was excited--and I was kind of cold--so I went ahead and tasted.  And the very fires of Hell burned the tip of my tongue, with scorching flames roasting their way down my throat.

He was there.

It only took around two seconds to drink and swallow the fiery liquid, yet my tongue felt as though it had been bathed in refining fire for an eon.  My barista smiled expectantly at me, and I returned the favor; what I could taste of the peppermint-chocolate was fantastic, and it wasn't her fault that hot cocoa was hot.  I then walked out to my car, got in and sat crying in pain.  Not really, but you get the idea.

Welcome to Hell.

Also, in case you were wondering, I have lost the ability to taste with my front taste buds.  Sorry, words on the tip of my tongue.


Stay colorful,
                     Meimei