Forbidden Stroopwafel.

I don’t know if you know this about me, but I’m something of an enthusiast when it comes to nail polish.

To be more accurate, I own a metric fuckton of the stuff. And I just keep buying more. Because I can never have enough nail polish. Never.

There are always new colors to try. New finishes. New special effects. I have creme polishes and shimmery polishes, magnetic polishes and textured polishes, multichrome and holographic and UV color-changing polishes, and I STILL. WANT. MORE. I NEED THEM ALL.

And because I’m super extra and the selections available at drugstores are boring as fuck, these days I buy most of my nail polish online.

Most of my magnetic polishes, for example, are by a Russian brand that I have sent to me from the Netherlands.

The Netherlands.

I have a problem. A colorful, shiny problem.

Yes. these are all mine. Apparently I was a nail blogger in another life.

But the real problem is that the nice people in the Netherlands who help feed my addiction also just plain feed me. Every package I get from them comes with a tiny complimentary stroopwafel.

A mouthful of heaven right here, folks.

If you’ve never had a stroopwafel and you like things that are sweet and chewy and delicious and fun to say, put eating one of these babies on your bucket list. Just trust me.

I would join you in feasting upon their syrupy goodness, but I can’t, because while my taste buds say yes, that big ol’ buzzkill known as The Elimination Diet of Sadness says no, and them’s the rules for two and a half more weeks.

Until then, my small gift from the Dutch will just have to sit there making waffle-patterned eyes at me.

I feel I can speak with absolutely no amount of hyperbole when I say it’s torture.

On the bright side, my nails look fabulous.