The problem with cake is that it makes me think about my ass. Even when the cake is lovely, inventive, beautiful, I look at it and immediately, my thoughts go to my ass. Or my thighs. They take turns when it comes to all matters cake.
The last thing I want to think about when I look at cake is my ass, or my thighs, because they are so negative when it comes to cake. Cake deserves its own headspace, and for some reason, my body can't or won't supply that.
It doesn't help that I am very particular about cake. It should be made by a person who loves making it. I don't love cake that has been made by machines because, well, they are just like all the others; cold, joyless, indifferent. The proof is the boxes of them, stacked in rows in supermarkets, all to be put in squeeky-wheeled carts and fed to unsuspecting children over the course of a week or two. Good cake waits for no one. Good cake is its own occasion.
Home-made cake stirs the soul. A good cake, made with care, says love. That is why it is so frustrating that when I look at such a thing, all I can think about is my ass. Or my thighs. They take turns.
This travesty. This torture. I burden myself with "who is watching me eat?" I should be able to eat whatever the fuck I want. No matter what my ass or my thighs say about it, intermittently. I should be able to walk down the street, screaming, at the top of my lungs, over my love for cake, because, by god, it is inspiring. But, no. My shame will not allow it, though my love burns brightly.
Also, unfortunately, I am white, and educated, and now, it is insensitive for me to eat cake as well. One person-who I THOUGHT was my friend- even called me Marie Antoinette when I recently referred to my love for cake. So now, it is not only my ass and thighs talking to me, but all the marginalized people in the world who do not have access to good cake.
I blame society, as any good cake eater would. This damn society that demands that I look a certain way, eat a certain way, and deprive myself so as not to arouse jealousy or hatred.
Isolated, me and my love for cake, which fills me with joy and shame simultaneoulsy, I wait and hope for others to come along and join me. I hope for my own small band of cake enthusiasts with whom I can party. I long for the freedom to enjoy my cake in public and in peace without worry of ass or thigh, without concern that someone without might suffer.
I long for the day when eating cake might not be so conspicuous.
The last thing I want to think about when I look at cake is my ass, or my thighs, because they are so negative when it comes to cake. Cake deserves its own headspace, and for some reason, my body can't or won't supply that.
It doesn't help that I am very particular about cake. It should be made by a person who loves making it. I don't love cake that has been made by machines because, well, they are just like all the others; cold, joyless, indifferent. The proof is the boxes of them, stacked in rows in supermarkets, all to be put in squeeky-wheeled carts and fed to unsuspecting children over the course of a week or two. Good cake waits for no one. Good cake is its own occasion.
Home-made cake stirs the soul. A good cake, made with care, says love. That is why it is so frustrating that when I look at such a thing, all I can think about is my ass. Or my thighs. They take turns.
This travesty. This torture. I burden myself with "who is watching me eat?" I should be able to eat whatever the fuck I want. No matter what my ass or my thighs say about it, intermittently. I should be able to walk down the street, screaming, at the top of my lungs, over my love for cake, because, by god, it is inspiring. But, no. My shame will not allow it, though my love burns brightly.
Also, unfortunately, I am white, and educated, and now, it is insensitive for me to eat cake as well. One person-who I THOUGHT was my friend- even called me Marie Antoinette when I recently referred to my love for cake. So now, it is not only my ass and thighs talking to me, but all the marginalized people in the world who do not have access to good cake.
I blame society, as any good cake eater would. This damn society that demands that I look a certain way, eat a certain way, and deprive myself so as not to arouse jealousy or hatred.
Isolated, me and my love for cake, which fills me with joy and shame simultaneoulsy, I wait and hope for others to come along and join me. I hope for my own small band of cake enthusiasts with whom I can party. I long for the freedom to enjoy my cake in public and in peace without worry of ass or thigh, without concern that someone without might suffer.
I long for the day when eating cake might not be so conspicuous.
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