How Long Do Effects Of Chunky Monkey Variety Typically Last?

When I was seven, my father brought home a beautiful lady who gave me a mango. That day, my mother watched me happily eating the mango while she signed her name on the divorce papers. After that, she jumped off the roof of our building. From then on, mangoes became the nightmare of my life. So on my wedding day, I told my husband, Alan Holt, "If you ever want a divorce, just give me a mango." Alan pulled me into his arms, quiet. From then on, mangoes became off-limits for him, too. On Christmas Eve of our fifth year of marriage, Alan's childhood sweetheart, Larissa Fennimore, left a mango on his desk at the office. The very same day, Alan announced he was cutting ties with Larissa and fired her from the company. That day, I truly believed he was the man I was meant to be with. Half a year later, I flew back from overseas, having just closed a partnership deal worth about 200 million dollars. At the celebration dinner, Alan handed me a drink. After I had finished half the glass, his so-called childhood sweetheart, the woman who had been kicked out of the company, stood behind me with a big grin and asked, "Does the mango juice taste good?" I stared at Alan in disbelief, and he was trying hard not to laugh. "Don't be mad. Larissa insisted I played a little joke on you. I didn't actually give you a mango; I just gave you a bottle of mango juice. But I think she's right. The fact that you don't eat mangoes is a real problem. You were really enjoying that juice just now." My face went cold. I lifted my hand and threw the rest of the mango juice in his face, then turned around and walked away. Some things are never a joke. I wouldn't kid around with mangoes or divorce.

At the party for our first wedding anniversary, I hit the floor—face-first on a red carpet, gasping like a fish out of water. Carlo Pipino, my husband, had his arm draped around Gianna Verde, his childhood flame, sipping champagne and laughing. Gianna knew I was allergic to nuts. So, obviously, she bathed everything in hazelnut dressing. One bite and boom—my throat locked, my lungs lit up, and hives popped like confetti. I reached for my allergy meds—came up with a fistful of melted M&Ms instead. Gianna laughed when she saw my face. "Surprise! Carlo swapped your meds. Seriously, Siena, one nut? Dramatic much?" I slid off my chair, wheezing, while the crowd placed bets on how long my "performance" would last. "Carlo... my meds..." I croaked. "Please. I'm gonna die." He sighed, annoyed. "God, you're so dramatic. Why do women always play dead for attention? You know I love you. Just stop this show already." Right then, my heart shattered faster than my lungs could. I stopped begging. Hit the distress signal. Called my real family.

My fiance is the best Neuro Healer among the werewolves. His first love is his little stepsister, who once took a fatal silver arrow for him. Now, her old condition has flared up, and she has a fatal silver venom disease. She only has 21 days left to live. In order to stay with her in her final days, he pours his newly developed "Memory Lock Potion" into me to eliminate all my memories of him by force. He says, "It's just 21 days. Once she's gone, I'll feed you the antidote myself, and you'll remember me again." In those 21 days, he holds a grand bonding ceremony for his stepsister, dances with her during the Moon Goddess Festival, and makes an oath swearing that they will become mates again in their next life. Finally, he sends her off. After 21 days, the potion wears off, and he kneels in the rain with tears and blood all over his face. He asks hoarsely in an accusing tone, "The potion only lasts for 21 days… why have you forgotten me completely?" I just look up impassively at him. "Sorry, but who are you?"

A young guy keeps getting into trouble in very funny and unfortunate ways. He wrecked havocs on people too, mistakenly. He hallucinated and had great fantasies about people to brighten up his hearers. Afterwards, he came back to his mundane reality.

"Fvck you. Get off me now!" He towers over me and his hands move under the covers, going higher and higher until I gasp. No matter how I want to push him away and stomp on his body, I can't. The heat and pleasure coming from his touch makes me go crazy. "Get off me, you dimwit." Through the heat, I force out words and I close my eyes as I moan when his lips descend on my neck, teasing and nibbling. "Oh goddess. Why won't you get off me." I try to push him off, in the mist of pleasure and he looks down at me with hooded eyes. My back touches the headboard when I shift backwards but he drags me back to himself by my ankle. "I am the King, Minerva. That means what I say goes." "Well, you can go fvck yourself or better yet, let your other mate do that for you." He climbs over me with his hands on each side of my head. Luckily, the heat is subsiding due to our close range. "I've told you a thousand time. I don't want you, I need you." "Fucker! I've told you a zillion times, I don't want to be your baby making machine, you stupid son of a mammoth-" He immediately shuts me up with a deep kiss, exploding my insides. ~~~~ It's every she-wolf's dream to be the mate of the wolf king but not Minerva's. She didn't plan to even know him, she didn't bargain to become a second mate, or a baby making machine to the King who has an unusual plan set up in his head; neither did she plan to be a hybrid. He finally found a way to break her... But they were so unconcerned about the brewing evil.

It was the climactic moment of my game, but the enemy's flash bang blinded me. After I reopened my eyes, I found myself in the world of the post-apocalyptic underdog comeback story I'd ranted about to my friend the day before. No, I wasn't the protagonist with a cheat for a system. Instead, I was the cannon fodder who suffered the worst fate. He also had my name. I found myself locked outside the armored vehicle while a swarm of high-level zombies had surrounded me. 'Blast,' I thought. 'All this just because I flamed them? And I just made a pentakill after my 8-win streak!' I told myself to calm down and let my mind do its work, but then the laughter of this body's wife echoed from the walkie-talkie. "Stop covering for him, gunners! We're livestreaming to the whole camp. My husband's going to rip these Tier Six zombies to shreds!" Then, the woman's useless male best friend buzzed with excitement. "I'll have a permanent spot in the inner city if he distracts the horde and they rip him apart in the process, babe!" If this went the way of the original story, I'd beg for help only to get no answer and be ripped apart by the zombies. Fortunately, I wasn't the same coward this guy used to be. The woman kept egging me on. I sneered. I didn't spend years playing competitive games for nothing. And so, I grabbed a high-frequency concussion grenade that could get the attention of every single zombie in a 3-mile radius, smashed the ventilation valve of the armored vehicle, and hurled the grenade inside.