11 let them eat cake

cake becomes more and more important as i age.

like, really fucking important.

by cake i don't mean hoity-toity, high class cake. this is no austrian bakery situation. there need not be barbies crinolined in skirts of iced braids or alice in wonderland layers or dora the explorer's head. (marzipan, stay the fuck away.)

i'm talking cake. real fucking cake. the sheet cakes stacked in the inter-aisle freezers in supermarkets. the cake they have at birthdays and mississippi funerals because only rolling expanses of fondant icing can soothe the emotions around aging and death.

the operative word here would be fondant. fondancy is the key to my heart. sugar, good. water, good. frosting, fuck yeah.

last night, i bought a cake. let's be clear. this was not a slice. not a square. not a serving. not a quarter nor a half. the whole fucking cake, it is mine.

my buying of a whole fucking cake is rendered somewhat less shameful given that my parents are blowing into town and will, no doubt, assist me in destroying it. but i know, deep in the sugary depths of my sweet tooth, that the buying of this cake would in no way have been influenced by them. were they not coming, i would still have bought it. i would still have wanted the whole fucking thing.

because cake is fucking important. fondance is really fucking important. they make the world go round.

so 28? the year of cake.

and the year i say fuck a fucking lot.

fuck yeah.