Out in semi-rural Georgetown, Indiana, just a stone’s throw from the semi-famous but always appreciated Georgetown Drive-In, there is an ice cream stand that softens the blow from being turned away for a showing of Planet of the Apes. What happened next went something like this:
“I’ll put a bottle of water in my bag so I don’t buy myself a milkshake.”
Fifteen minutes later, getting out of the car to get a milkshake
“Fuck, this water is heavy.”
Anyway. They sell marshmallow milkshakes. Marshmallow. Milkshakes. These guys are clouds and songs and heaven and forgetting all wrapped up in a paper cup, handed to me by an overworked service sector angel. It was everything I never knew milkshakes could be, and I forgive milkshakes all the wrongs they have done against me.