Thirty Day Photo Challenge: Day 11

Day 11:  Post a photo of something you hate.

As I mulled over possible topics du jour (while watching Criminal Minds, of course), many things that I hate occurred to me--racism, discrimination, littering, smoking, hair in the shower drain, poverty, the distribution of wealth in society, heights, mosquitoes, body odor, nose blowing, and the sounds people make when they're eating--only one thing really stuck out as something that I loathe, despise, and revile.  And while I really couldn't post a photo of this thing, because I never get close enough to it to actually TAKE one, I did manage to dig up some cute clip art, which is slightly less revolting for me to look at than pictures of the real thing.  That THING, that disgusting creation, is none other than Neopolitan ice cream.  Blech.

When it comes to ice cream, I'm all for segregation.  Separate boxes are a must.  I really dislike chocolate ice cream most of the time, and strawberry ice cream is one of my most detested foods, so there's no way I'd ever buy a box with those flavors in there, much less with them squished up against my precious vanilla.  But growing up, because everyone had their own stupid flavor that they liked, this is what my parents bought.  Time and time again. 

Even still, I probably could have tolerated it IF they had let me be the first one served out of the box, and IF they had let me scoop my own.  Because you see, NOBODY was ever careful enough to keep the scoop in one flavor.  They'd scoop right down the edge of the vanilla, getting slivers of strawberry in my ice cream.  I'd have to spend the next few minutes scraping all of the pink bits off of the plate, and by the time I got around to eating my all-white, pure vanillla ice cream, it was slushy.  OR, even worse, some sinister creature wielding an ice cream scoop would scoop LONGWAYS across the box, making sure to get a little of every flavor in each scoop.  Barf.  And even if I were quick to point out that none of MY ice cream could touch the others in the box, by then some of the colors had started to mix together inside the box, so there was no hope of finding just plain vanilla. 

Many birthdays and family celebrations were marred by this horrendous excuse for dessert.  Because even if I somehow managed to get just vanilla ice cream on my plate, I became the object of ridicule to the point that my dear family members would INTENTIONALLY let chocolate drop on my plate, ruining my oh-so-carefully arranged ice cream.  So, feeling like a circus freak, I'd pick around my plate trying to find edible parts, again, as it melted into soup before my eyes.  Traumatic, to say the least.  Almost as bad as someone putting the ice cream ON the cake instead of beside it.  Who could eat THAT?