I don’t remember the last time someone bought me a cake on my birthday
I don’t eat birthday cakes, anniversary cakes, graduation cakes.. any of that shit.
People try force you of course:
“Dude.. Eat it! It’s soooo good. Would you just look at the fondant??? It tastes EVEN better than it looks. OH MY FUCKING GOD IT’S AMAZING I CAN’T EVEN!”
Then they convulse in their excitement. Their eyes pop out of their sockets and drool slips between the gaps of their teeth and spills over their lips onto their cheeks. Warm, drippy, viscous drool mixed with semi-dry cake debris. They claw at their temples; they just can’t take the flavor. They’re loving it though. They want to scrub every inch of their bodies with dark chocolate malt cake with vanilla bean icing and forget about their troubles. Screw paying rent. The dog can feed himself. I didn’t want to get married anyway.
You wish I’d eat that cake. I’d rather gouge my eyes out. I’d rather stab you in the throat with a candle and watch you try to swallow the little bit of icing that was trickling down your throat. I’d rather bite down on my tongue and hope I can’t taste anything afterward. That’s how much I want to eat your cake.
“Isn’t it beautiful?”,they say, “look look look! The flower on top is real! Not like one of those cheap cakes you buy from the store. Mmmmm!” Rubbing their hands on their tummies like all of a sudden they’ve become pregnant and the cake baby is their new purpose in life. Disgusting. Goddamn disgusting.
So I stay away from the cake, from the superficial excitement. One birthday, I’ll get my own cake. And I’ll fucking own it. I’ll lock myself in my room and eat it by myself and give no one the satisfaction of savoring it, with their eyes or with their tongues. Hell I won’t even let them smell it, though refrigerated cakes don’t smell like much at all.