Gluttony, thy name is Kearsie

I love cake.

Nay, that is not strong enough. Let me amend. I ADORE WITH THE ADORATION OF A THOUSAND AND ONE SUNS cake.

I love the smell of cake.

I love the swirls and piles of frosting on top of cake.

I love pictures and blogs and bakeries full of cake.

And mostly, I love to eat cake. I want to make out with it.

Nom nom nom.

This might be how crack addicts feel about their pipe. How alcoholics feel about their Jim Beam. How coffee addicts feel when the drive by a Starbucks.

I.love.cake.

But cake, sadly, does not love me back. It's like a really bad boyfriend. It smells really good (Drakkar Noir flashback). It looks really good on the outside, but is way damaging on the inside. Full of gunk. Full of junk. It expands the trunk.

Ok, that last bit is reaching.

So.

It's February. Two members of our household have birthdays in February. You know what that means?

Cake.

Lots of cake.

Lots of lovely cake.

Lots of gorgeous, smelly good cake.

Lots of tasty, fatty, caloric, guilt-ridden cake.

This last weekend I ate nine pieces of cake.

This last weekend I ate a few too many pieces of cake.

I can practically hear my skin expanding as new pockets of cellulite multiply on my thighs. My stomach is like communal living to fat deposits. My face is developing that lovely cherub-like pudgy cheek thing. My ellipitcal scoffs when I walk by and mutters "just keep on going, fatty, I can't help you". My poor clothing groans when I open the drawer. All because of cake.

I know what you're thinking, because I'm 75% psychic. You're thinking "well just say no! Crack is whack!" and whilst you would be ever so right that crack is indeed whack, I have no NO button when it comes to cake. Nay. I only have the PLEASE SIR CAN I HAVE SOME MORE button. Next to it is the ARE YOU GOING TO FINISH THAT button which rests nicely next to the WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T LIKE FROSTING, GIVE IT HERE button. There's no room for a NO button on my panel of buttons.

When I was a kid, we lived near my aunt who made all kinds of lovely cakes. And at the tender age of 13, I discovered something. I discovered I was REALLY REALLY GOOD at sneaking cake. Would you like to learn my secret method of thievery? Here it is, you ready? Cut veeerrrryyy thin slivers of cake instead of huge gaping squares. There. I know, so simple. You're practically sitting there with slack jaws and wide eyes at my geniusy maneuvers. What can I say?

So. In the face of all this cake, I was like a coffee addict let loose in a new Starbucks with no line. I was out.of.control. I had to take matters into my own hands else I would go hog wild and eat the whole thing whilst my family looked on in horror. So I threw the rest away in the garbage whilst quietly humming TAPS and muttering a fitting eulogy. I wore black today in mourning.

Tell me, fair reader, because misery loves company, what is your drug of choice? Are you gluttoneous about anything?