Yesterday I had a bite of cake for pre-breakfast (I like to eat all day, so I have about eight meals instead of three). I thought this would be a sweet way to start the morning, but boy, was I ever wrong. From that initial taste, I was obsessed with getting more cake. Initially I planned to hold out for lunch, when we often have cake available. But luck was not smiling down on me, and I had to settle for yogurt instead.
Then I started asking my co-workers if they had any cake lying around. They looked at me as though I were trying to be quirky, but my wild-eyed cake-lust was no laughing matter. I couldn't concentrate on anything; always in the background was that craving for cake.
I consulted Andrew, who can often be found talking about cake. Years ago, when he first told me, "I like cake," I thought he was kidding. Now I understand the cakey
frenzy that plagues him. It is no thing to joke about.
Anyway, I tore out of work like a bat out of hell, licking my chops (and elbow) in sweet anticipation for the cake in my refrigerator. It was a nice yellow sheet cake with thick white frosting—the kind of preservative-laden cake brick available only at chain grocers. As soon as I entered my cave of an apartment, I grabbed a plastic fork and pulled out the glorious cake-brick. I ate that sugary devil for at least fifteen minutes. Bliss at last.
After gobbling about an eighth of that fine, fine cake, though, an unexpected and horrible thing happened. I started to feel very ill, like I might want to throw up or die or something, and as the cat was vomiting rosebuds, I didn't really want to join him in some weird cat/owner barf bonding. With considerable effort and groaning, I managed to waddle my ass out of the apartment and join the regular,
non-cake-obsessed world. Only now, almost 24 hours later, has my body stopped punishing me for the cake incident. I am never eating cake again,
or at least, not until next week.
Then I started asking my co-workers if they had any cake lying around. They looked at me as though I were trying to be quirky, but my wild-eyed cake-lust was no laughing matter. I couldn't concentrate on anything; always in the background was that craving for cake.
I consulted Andrew, who can often be found talking about cake. Years ago, when he first told me, "I like cake," I thought he was kidding. Now I understand the cakey
frenzy that plagues him. It is no thing to joke about.
Anyway, I tore out of work like a bat out of hell, licking my chops (and elbow) in sweet anticipation for the cake in my refrigerator. It was a nice yellow sheet cake with thick white frosting—the kind of preservative-laden cake brick available only at chain grocers. As soon as I entered my cave of an apartment, I grabbed a plastic fork and pulled out the glorious cake-brick. I ate that sugary devil for at least fifteen minutes. Bliss at last.
After gobbling about an eighth of that fine, fine cake, though, an unexpected and horrible thing happened. I started to feel very ill, like I might want to throw up or die or something, and as the cat was vomiting rosebuds, I didn't really want to join him in some weird cat/owner barf bonding. With considerable effort and groaning, I managed to waddle my ass out of the apartment and join the regular,
non-cake-obsessed world. Only now, almost 24 hours later, has my body stopped punishing me for the cake incident. I am never eating cake again,
or at least, not until next week.
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