When I was 5 years old, I had serious problems with my tonsils. As soon as I would as much as look at something cold, I would get sick. And I simply adored ice-cream; every flavour (vanilla, strawberry, white chocolate) and every form (on a stick, in a cone – it didn’t matter). You can imagine how miserable I was looking at all those people eating it at the summer time, and I wasn’t allowed. Or I would be allowed once a month… 

My doctor used a nasty trick to get me do the surgery. He convinced me that I will get loads of ice-cream as soon as I woke up after the surgery. My imagination went wild with possible combinations: what sort of flavours would I get, how many scoops, will there be chocolate topping… The moment I woke up after the surgery, I called the nurse and asked her where my ice-cream is. She laughed and explained I was tricked.

A month after that, I could finally eat ice-cream normally without getting sick. And could never get enough of it – I constantly asked for more. One day, my granddad decided to trick me and gave me as much ice-cream as I wanted (in hope I will realise I can’t eat as much and stop asking more in the future). 
But (pay attention to higher combinatorics of a 5-year-old) I knew that if I told him I couldn’t eat it all, I could never ask for more. So, I sat there, eating ice-cream that was bigger than me, felling sickish but not giving up… Cause you can never show you had too much ice-cream.
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