Strawberry Tongue.

Decadent? You bet your sweet scooper. Ah, decadence: a delicious word. It conjures up images of warm molten lava cakes dripping and oozing with a toothsome chocolate melt; luxuriant truffles with a smooth-as-silk ganache center that melts on your tongue, drizzled with white chocolate and garnished with a honey-glazed wafer for aesthetics; Cheesecake factory cheesecake ('nuff said); textures and taste blends so rich and so symphonious, they're sinful. The body's method of convincing us to provide our mitochondria with energy to feed our cells is nuanced and ingenius. Yet, I've always wondered why the body is convinced that a quick shot of nutrition-devoid simple sugars and fats merits irresistability and temptation, while vitamin and antioxidant-chocked superfoods are just quietly accepted. Perhaps because the satisfaction of healthy foods is mental, while the satisfaction of guilty pleasures is physical and emotional. Health foods cause latent, unimmediate physical benefits, while desserts bring swift gratification that can be rolled over the tongue. Chemicals in chocolate, including the antidepressant and dopamine/adrenaline-mimic phenylethylamine, quicken blood pulse and stimulate the release of endorphins and seratonin, thus eliciting a feeling similar to love. This is a reason why chocolate desserts are often particularly appealing.

As an aside, two mysterious toothbrushes have materialized in my rose themed toothbrush-holder in the downstairs bathroom, which is vexing. My dad uses a Waterpik (TM), my mom uses a violet toothbrush (her favorite color), my sister uses a disney princess toothbrush and my brother uses the high tech electric kind of brush that flashes for the amount of time he's supposed to brush (60ish seconds). HOWEVER. The first phantom toothbrush is light blue and the second is a pinkish purple that my mom would not approve of... maybe I'll have to snoop like Gwen Stefani talks about doing in the lyrics of Detective, or like Nate the Great except using sentences with much higher complexity, or like Shirley Holmes while she solves cases involving poison, indignant 8th grade sidekicks, and Indian-colored French people. Actually the indignant 8th grade sidekick and Indian colored French person were only part of the alleged poison case while it was performed at Riverbend Middle School when I was in 6th grade. I was Shirley Holmes and Elizabeth Caccia was Dotty, the female Watson equivalent. She was around 2 feet taller than me, with many more boobs and all her 8th grade experience and general better-than-6th-graders-ness under her belt. She always gave me dirty looks during play practice after I told her it was elementary, my Dear Dotty, and she had to bow her head in deference and write down all the clues that I noticed but she didn't and tell me I was brilliant. That was a pretty glorious scene. I don't think I wore a bra while I performed that play, although I had me some itty buds. A woman wearing a bra while she sleeps increases the chance of breast cancer, according to Bonnie Pascal, a highly estudious breast expert. Actually she's no more estudious or adorned than I am; pretty much the only well-adorned attendee of the Academy of Science is Aubrey Higginson. Maybe sex appeal cancels out the need for higher intelligence. Or maybe we all just didn't drink enough rBGH-fed cow milk in our youth.

Breasts are just floppy, saggy lumps of connective tissue, fat, and milk-producing lobules. Sure, big boobs are fun to play with, but they don't increase milk production or child-rearing ability, so why are they sexy? Maybe boobs are just attractive as signs of feminity and non-male traits, like curvy eyebrows and slanted jawlines. Christopher Sigournay suggests that they are visual stimuli that mimic buttocks and developed when human sex switched from doggie style to missionary, which is an intriguing thought to entertain. I wonder when that switch occurred... maybe when humanoids evolved into Homo erectus and started to walk upright, so laying flat was more natural than hunching over on all fours.

Humans flout evolution in allowing the impaired to live and reproduce. Non-human species have a much lower rate of bad eyesight, blindness, and deafness, because those traits die off with the animals that carry them, while humans reproduce regardless. Instead of encouraging competition and natural selection, we level the playing field and eliminate evolutionary competition with the use of glasses, contacts, laser eye surgery, hearing aids, etc. Not to say that the impaired or handicapped are unfit to live -- keep truckin' little buddies! You'll beat the evolutionary system yet!

WikiAnswers.com says breasts are made of chocolate milk and lady powder. I gotta get me some Nesquik...

PS. Snow White has the smallest boobs out of all the Disney Princesses.

Exhibit A:

Cloudberry

Dogma, Alanis Morissette, Edie Brickell.  Religion is a smile on a dog.

My sister's lacrosse stick just started leaking... ah, but on further inspection, I've discovered that the water's leaking on to the LAX stick from a hole in my ceiling that I'm pretty sure wasn't there the last time I checked.  But then again I rarely ever check, or pay any sort of attention to that neck of the woods (the woods being my computer room).  I've grown accustomed to the visual stench in much the same fashion as my perception of foul odors disappears after prolonged exposure to the smells.  Conditioning myself to the shoddy condition of my house promotes both the sanity of myself and the squalidness of my surroundings; if we stop noticing the holes, we'll never patch them up.  That happens in life too, eh? Thus leading to an inability or unwillingness to escape from deadbeat jobs, dysfunctional marriages, destructive habits, mundane activities, unhealthy relationships (but the catalysts that produce and maintain these situations are much more complex than I've made them out to be). Mostly we blame my dad's dearth of willpower for the ill-positioned wall-gashes that bleed water every now and then for good measure. Or more specifically, we blame my father's inability to cast away his his elder-sibling chutzpah long enough to coerce my Uncle Matt into performing "unpaid immigrant labor." There are numerous alphas, betas, gammas, and deltas.... but there is only one omega: Uncle Matt.  This was the first lesson that my father taught me about the Greek alphabet... and his view of the social framework as it pertains to relative age.  I love my Uncle Matt, even if he is a lowly pack member and only gets to eat what I regurgitate for wolf-pup consumption once I've picked over the caribou carcass.  I make sure to regurgitate some of the choicest morsels.  

Once my uncle told me that he lived with a herd of underground mole people who feed upon roots and insects and things, but I called him a liar because moles don't ever eat roots or plants.  The fact that his inaccurate description of a mole's diet was the only part that made me skeptical of his story is a testament to my pre-teen naivety... and a hint at the droves of inapplicable knowledge that I accumulated from reading non-fiction picture books.

   Guess what? Eastern moles commonly inhabit fields, meadows, and lawns throughout counties in the southeastern fourth of Minnesota.  Well gollyjee.  Nowadays google acts as an extension of my brain when it comes to inapplicable knowledge and tasty little factoids, so picture books are unnecessary.  Scissors beat paper, search engines beat reference books.  But only in regards to the efficiency and ease of the information exchange -- reference books are arguably more dependable.

Here are some fruits that I did not know existed: Kaki, Feijoa, Durian, Jackfruit, Cloudberry, Cherimoya, Mangosteen, Granadilla, Rose apple, Physalis, Sharon fruit, Tamarillo, Uglis.   I know about paw paws from that song about pickin' up paw paws and puttin' 'em in the basket that I learned in chorus class in some elementary school grade or other -- one of the years during which I could count my age (and my worries) with my fingers.  I don't actually have time to blog because I have to write a script about Teenage Dr. Gregory House diagnosing a case of strep throat within the span of three high school periods (equipped with his trusty pocket syringe).  Also, I have been forbidden from including mythological creatures or any type of drug or sex related scandals in the script... my friends know me far too well.  Also it is stupid to swear off love.