Sticky Hands and Mind Bullets

I love popsicles.

Since when?

Since now.

What's not to love about popsicles? They're cold and sweet and they taste like childhood. Simply delicious.

I wonder why I ate so many more popsicles as a child than I do now. I certainly don't eat less sweets; that's just preposterous. Are popsicles less refined? Have my taste buds become too good for popsicles?

I hope not.

Maybe it's the mess. Or rather, maybe it's the fear of making a mess. I do have a lot of childhood memories of half-eaten popsicles falling off the stick, oftentimes onto my shirt or hands... or just into the dirt. I'm not sure which of those made me the saddest. Probably the dirt. Clothes can be cleaned and hands can be washed, but a good popsicle can only be replaced by an uncharacteristically kind parent (usually I got a "I told you you should/shouldn't have _____, and now you've lost your popsicle.")

Good times. Maybe I can attribute my cavity free childhood to half eaten popsicles. Nah, I'll give that one to my superior genetic make-up. If only my superior genetic make-up had also given me telekinesis.

Then I could have saved my popsicles.