I promise I won't talk about it...

I’ve already covered the issue of my allergies and various gastrointestinal discomfort enough times, so I will not comment on my latest stomach upset. I won’t mention how it all began when I attended a sheva bracha and was surprised by the delectable array of milchig dishes. I won’t rave about the lasagnas, the pizza, the calzones and ice cream Sundays for dessert (with jimmies or sprinkles depending on your linguistic flavor) because, as I said, we’ve already covered this subject. I won’t write you a detailed transcript of my hemming and hawing over whether I should partake of the mountain of mammary delights that were placed before me by a troop of obedient chareidi children, their peyos flying as they rushed to and fro preparing the table for the culinary slaughter that we impoverished yeshiva buchrim were about to unleash. I won’t tell you how good the slices of pizza tested, or how the combination of mozzarella tomato sauce and anything tastes wonderful… And I won’t give single detail about how I’ve paid for my hour or so of caseinated pleasure with a full week of pain, a chain reaction that occurs when I turn the milk volume up to 11 and keep it there for any period of time. Finally, I won’t write that I’ll never do this again, or swear off of pizza, because... I’ve already said it before.

If I ever get the chance to become a father to a daughter I know I'll feel just like this, even though it'll all be frum dating.
http://wwwjackbenimble.blogspot.com/2008/08/my-daughter.html

Labels: ice cream, stomach