There is no cure. You can try to make a copycat version at home, but it always tastes like a politician’s apology: close, but not quite right. You can try to forget, but your brain has that minty flavor stored in the same locker as your first kiss and the smell of rain on pavement.
The only advice I have is this: embrace the chaos. When you see that green sign in late February, charge in like a Viking. Buy two. Freeze one. Write a love letter to the minty god. Because for the next 11 months, you’re just going to be staring at a pink Strawberry Shake, wondering what could have been.
So, when does it leave? Too soon, my friend. Too damn soon.
