I believe in milkshakes—strawberry, chocolate and coconut cream pie slurped through bright red straws to tickle your tummy till it’s smiling.  Your head is confused and conflicted as the sweet sips bring on a brain freeze and a sugar rush all at once—a whipped mountain topped with a cherry bomb, which you try and try and try again to tie the stem with your tongue but never seem to do quite right. 
    

There is never a bad time for a milkshake.  Late night runs to Steak‘n’Shake after sneaking the victory from the cross-town competition; fans in blue, black, and white tees cramped in crowded booths: couples sneaking whipped cream kisses from across the table.  And you sit here, taking deep sighs after catching a breath from chuckling so much with your classmates.
    

Milkshakes are always there when someone else is not.  A bad breakup with a boy who broke your best friend’s heart can always be mended with a big spoon and tall shake.  Two in the afternoon and a tiny text illuminates your screen asking to come over—starting from sobs and spooning the surface, to scraping the edges and smiling about how silly it is to be sad about such a stupid dude.  Suddenly, Sonic never tasted so good.
    

Milkshakes are there for a multitude of “firsts.”  Your first date with a fairly handsome boy and he brings you two straws and only one banana shake.  Your first paycheck from working four hours at the laundry mat is spent on a tall vanilla malt swirl.  Your first fast food trip with your full license to grab a burger and fries is only flawlessly complemented with a cup of frozen chocolate.  Summer or winter, sun or weather, I believe in the magic of milkshakes.