I have cake maybe three times every six months, and it's always some meager square of lame 1-layer supermart bakery cheapskate special that somebody picked up for work purposes, to divide into fifty pieces and hand around to whoever's handy in ostensible celebration of some occasion that needed to be marked for morale purposes.
That doesn't even count as cake, in my opinion! Or it shouldn't. The icing's too sweet, and it's gooey. The cake is clammy and uninspired. I'll eat it, as a show of solidarity with those with whom I share my daily circumstance and a certain esprit de corpse - I'll eat it. But I shouldn't have to call it cake! It should not count as cake.
I can't remember the last time I had a REAL PIECE of REAL CAKE.
I should be letting my fork glide down through the point of a triple-layer thick spongy-moist gourmet or home-baked first-rate hunk of CAKE! Replete with rich, silken icing, so creamy - but with a just tinge of sugary crust to its exterior texture! I want to indulge in CAKE, real cake!
Not every day. From time to time.
I want to smack my lips and thrill to the luxurious, velvety mouth-feel of a truly excellent cake. I want chocolate cake. I want the other kind. I want yellow cake. I want white cake. I want red velvet cake. I want coconut cake. I want POPPYSEED CAKE.
What's the deal here? I grew up and became an adult at least partially contingent upon the understanding that I could pretty much have cake whenever I wanted to. And what's the obstacle? Why am I falling down on that obligation, so severely? I don't really understand what the damn problem is.
Let me eat cake.