Some wise person once told me commitment was key. But commitment is hard isn’t it? I’ve quit smoking like three times just this month. Gym memberships just gather dust for months on end, soft diets get cheated on with the likes of McDonalds. Okay, maybe the person who told me was either wise
or high.

Okay fine, he was just high.

But in the hopes of re-claiming that person’s credibility, here’s my definition of commitment. Let me set the scene real quick. The night was cold as fuck. There we go. I’d been messaging this girl I used to work with back in the day. For the sake of names, let’s just call her Pineapple. So I was messaging Pineapple you know, back and forth, a ping here and a ping there. Notifications everywhere. Facebook mentions, snap streaks, Instagram DMs, you name it. The whole shabang. Even weird shit like, seeing each other in person. But yeah it was cool. Anyway, so one cold as fuck night, she hits me with a ‘what you doing’ and a ‘come bring me ice-cream’. Naturally, I rug up to face the fuck you cold waiting for me outside. Head over to the local supermarket, and I grab a couple of Sara Lee’s ice-cream. You know, the premium shit. Like a gentlemen true? I forget the flavours now, but damn I wish I paid attention then. Oooh, ominous foreshadowing. Stay tuned for more, after this. This.

Welcome back. So I jump in my car, and head straight to Pineapple’s house. Once I hit the classic, ‘outside’ text, it was only then that I realised I was wearing grey-on-grey. Seriously? Of all times. Yeah, my mind was full roasting me.

You look like a stone cold grey wall in the Philippines painted three months ago.
You look like an idiot.
Nobody loves you.
Mitochondria is the powerhouse of a cell.

It’s the lack of effort in that last one that really hurts. Regardless, I had to commit. I already started it. Pineapple met me outside, and she guided me into her rumpus room. Chilling and sitting, seeing my current environment, the room was pretty fucking cool. Old-school arcade games like Pinball, a fireplace, some sport shit (I don’t know sport). Anyway, I pass her one of the ice-cream tubs right, and I grab mine. Hers was some flavour like, triple chocolate drip explosion of unicorn flaked dust on honeycomb sherbert. Mine was, well I couldn’t be fucked reading mine, I just wanted ice-cream. She gave me points for the premium ice-cream selection (fuck yeah). I then lost those points immediately when she lost her shit at my grey-on-grey ensemble. I don’t blame her, I’d roast me. I roast myself all the time. Well done. So we start eating the ice-cream, and she was loving life, and me? Well, it was about three bites in when I realised that I done fucked up. Whatever my ice-cream flavour was, it had a key ingredient: Hazelnut. I’m allergic to fucking hazelnut. But I can’t react just yet, because Pineapple just threw me a curveball of a deep and meaningful, I had to listen in and be attentive. You can imagine, she’s on one side of the couch conversing like a boss while I’m suppressing death. Fucking death. The death that is allergies. And what did I do next? She was having such a great carefree time on a quiet Saturday night, that we just kept talking and I shit you not, I kept eating more and more of my hazelnut-coated ice-cream. So as not to make it suspicious. About six or seven bites in, I casually go, ‘oh hey can I try your flavour?’ And with that, we engage in a spicy trade of sweet dairy treats. The rest of the night, well that’s not pertinent to this story. The point is, commitment is key, fuck yeah.  The end. See you in episode two.

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