fat little piggy fingers
When I was a kid, we used to spend a month out of the summer at my grandparent’s farm house in rural Ohio. Weekly, we’d visit the ice cream parlor and my favorite flavor was bubblegum. Then I turned eight and started going to sleepaway camp. I gave most of the camp Chicken Pox and a few summers later I became fairly skilled at riflery. (That’s totally a thing. Check your camp schedule.) I boasted about my camp-inspired Marksman status until I was 15. Then I became too cool for camp and too cool for bubblegum ice cream. I came back around to loving camp in ’99 and guns in ’08, but I will never like ice cream again. And you can’t make me.