I never quite understood the concept of “wanting your cake and eating it too.” I mean, why the fuck wouldn’t I want to eat my fucking cake? If I didn’t want it, I would’ve never walked my happy ass to the buffet table, took a slice, and plopped it on my dessert plate next to the creme brulee, chocolate covered strawberries, bread pudding, green tea and azuki bean panna cotta, and banana flambe (what? i’m hungry, don’t judge me!).
Cake is yummy, is it not? But the thing about cake is – it’s fucking bad for you. It sits there on a pedastal getting oogled at looking all handsome and shit next to the bran muffins that nobody wants or even notices. And while your ass shouldn’t even be in the damn patisserie ‘cuz you already know its bad for you, you’re still in there tasting cakes and cookies and drinking frozen hot chocolate. Bitch, don’t you know you’re supposed to be staying away from all of that? You should know better!
And of course you do. But you just can’t help yourself. Even though you know you should be next door at Trader Joe’s stocking up on Vita-Coco, apples, and granola or something. But cake just makes it sooo easy for you to like it. Afterall, you should know. You’re one mighty fine piece of Red Velvet yourself. So you understand, and you ain’t mad. You’ve gotten rid of worse habits before so getting rid of this one should be … well a piece of cake.
But damn, why this piece gotta be so damn delicious?
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