Till death do us split.

Right now, I am eating a banana split sundae and I never want it to end.

I want to eat this banana split sundae forever, and ever and evermore.

I will eat it in hot times and in cold times. In sickness and in health.

I will rudely eat my sundae in front of people—lactose intolerant losers, hungry street bums, kids who will beg for a bite.

When I refuse to share, I’ll make up an excuse. “We can’t exchange germs. You probably have ebola.”

The children will run away screaming, and I will wave at their parents as I spoon soft, cool cream into my salivating mouth.

People will become annoyed by my preoccupation, especially my mailman, who will be irked by my terrible manners. “Oww arr ouu?” I’ll ask, as melting, vanilla ice cream dribbles from the corners of my lips onto the mailman’s pants. 

My banana split sundae will be there for the birth of my first child. When the doctors hand me the baby, I will hand the baby to my husband, because it is nearly impossible to hold a baby and a banana split sundae at the same time.

At the funeral of a loved one, I will deliver a heartfelt eulogy while weeping over my dessert. I will suddenly feel better when I realize salty tears are a delicious accompaniment for chocolate sauce.

So I will carry on. I will eat my banana split sundae until I become old and wrinkled. Crepe-ish, papery skin will sag from my strong bones, fortified by years of vitamin D consumption. But I’ll never grow fat. And I’ll never develop diabetes. I’ll look like I’ve been eating kale my whole life instead.

The problem is, I’m just now realizing my banana split sundae is running out. Could this really be the end? Is my boat-shaped bowl not a bottomless pit of yum? With my one last bite, I will take one last breath. Then, may I rest in peace, and may my spirit float to heaven, where I will reside in a land of banana split sundaes for all of eternity, amen.