"Can I get a chocolate fudge blizzard and a chili cheese dog, but can I get the ingredients reversed, so the chili-cheese is in the blizzard and the chocolate fudge topping is on the hot dog?" I somehow asked without having a heart attack just by uttering the words. Surely, this was it. There was no way they'd make this.
"Uh, sure. If that's what you want."
"'Want' has nothing to do with it, son."
I hadn't expected this to work, and now that I had it, I was obligated to eat it. I had flown too close to the sun, and it's not easy to fly after everything I'd put into my body.
The wings aren't so much melting as breaking under the stress.
The hot dog was like ... okay, imagine that you're on death row, and you've just been asked for your last meal. You think carefully, wanting to choose something that will bring you a modicum of comfort as you face down your own mortality. After an emotional reflection on both your tastes and your life, it comes to you. Maybe it's a meal your mother made to comfort you in a childhood that feels oh so long ago. Maybe it's a food you enjoyed sharing with a loved one you'll never see again. Or maybe it's just something you once turned to on long days where you needed a little comfort. Whatever it is, you're confident that it will give you a moment of solace before you embrace oblivion. But then the warden laughs and tells you that you misheard. You're going to be the last meal. Then he ties you up and throws you into a pitch-dark pit of spiders who will slowly eat you piece by tiny piece over the coming days -- days during which you will feel nothing but incredible agony and extraordinary regret as you long for the death you once feared. That would be preferable to eating this hot dog.
The blizzard was worse.
Behold the instrument of your destruction, which even light fears.
Its horror was indescribable, but the madness that it induced was not. I assumed it would be bad, but I was not remotely prepared for how bad it would be. It was like the Pandora's Box of ice cream. All the evil of the universe had been condensed into some soft serve, and I foolishly decided to open the box with my face.
Be thankful scratch 'n' sniff GIFs haven't been invented.
My taste buds ceased transmitting flavor, and instead simply said "bad." Throwing up would have been an improvement in taste, and it would have spared me the task of eating the damned thing. But the universe was not so kind, and so I choked down the entire cold and greasy mass. This was not a blizzard. It was a storm.
This is the kind of thing where survival is the crueler punishment.
The blizzard was the last straw. I was done. I had embraced my freedom and become a husk that held only grease and regret. You're free to do whatever you want, but remember that sometimes, accepting that you're too dumb to enjoy your freedom is the smartest choice you can make.
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