The Ice Cream Cure (Capitalism Edition)
One man’s journey from helplessness to hustle, powered by disappointment and dairy.
I wanted to buy something.
To feel good about myself.
To rise above daily helplessness.
To have a sense of purpose.
So I went to an ice cream parlour.
“Which flavour do you want?” the woman behind the counter asked.
“Whichever one makes me feel better,” I shrugged.
She handed me a chocolate cone.
It made me feel worse.
“Give me a better flavour,” I demanded, pounding my fist on the table.
She gave me Belgian chocolate.
I licked it and made puking noises.
She ran to offer me water.
“Give me a better flavour,” I snapped, setting the water bottle aside and pounding the glass.
She rushed back to the counter, stacked dark chocolate on top of Belgian chocolate, and handed it to me in a cup.
I licked it and gagged.
“I asked you for a better flavour and you give me this?” I gritted my teeth and breathed hard to control my anger.
“You wanted something that makes you feel good about yourself,” the woman said.
“So I gave you something worse.”
The crease on my forehead eased. The blood in my veins slowed.
“Oh,” I said, staring at the ice cream.
“Sorry though. That’s my fault,” she said, pinching her lips.
“I forgot men aren’t that smart. They don’t understand the power of comparison.”
I walked out of the parlour holding three disgusting cones, licking every bit—
feeling good about myself like never before.
On the street, I met a man. A beggar.
“Give me the ice cream,” he demanded.
“It’s awful,” I said, warning him.
“Easier for you to say,” he chuckled—and snatched the cones from my hand.
I puked watching him slurp it all down. He looked… satisfied.
I handed him all the money in my pocket and walked away—
sad for the man, but strangely grateful for myself.
A few steps later, a lemonade vendor waved me down.
“This’ll stop the puking,” he said, handing me a glass.
I sipped it.
“How do you know I’ve been puking?”
“Oh, that’s our routine,” he shrugged.
“We spot a man fed up with life. She feeds him terrible ice cream. The beggar snatches it and licks it clean. You end up here with me.”
He winked.
“That’s how we multiply our profits.”
I furrowed my brows.
The whole thing felt like a scam.
Three partners tricking me into spending more.
I stood up and walked back to the parlour.
“What do you want now?” the woman asked.
“You tricked me. First you fed me increasingly worse ice cream, each more expensive than the last. Then your street partner made me donate to him. Then your lemonade guy sold me a filthy drink. All carefully staged.”
She shrugged, scratching her ear.
“Yeah. So?”
I looked around the posh ice cream parlour and nodded.
“So… I think what you’re doing is brilliant. Now I know what I want to do with my life.”
She stared.
“What do you want from me now?”
“Let me be your fourth partner.” I extended my hand.
“I can bring in buckets of frustrated men. Every single day.”
I walked out with nothing in hand—
but with three things I hadn’t had before:
a business,
a daily scam,
and a sense of purpose.
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