38

Sunday was my 38th birthday. Since my birthday is so close to Christmas, I have learned over the years to not expect much in the way of gifts. Not to sound greedy or whatever, but it has been a lifelong pisser to have a birthday so close to the big day where you can really haul it in. Not like my brother, who masterfully celebrates his birthday in the middle of June. Anyway, with low expectations and not much bank, all I asked for was chocolate cake. And a Starbucks coffee.

We began the day with tearing down the Christmas tree and taking it to the yard waste depot. On the way home, we grabbed the ingredients for the cake and stopped in to grab some coffees. This was my second cup so far, as I had downed one earlier with breakfast. It was at this point that I knew things were going to get twitchy, but I no longer cared. It was my birthday, dammit! Besides, since I wasn’t going to get much in the way of presents, I decided to make up for it by kicking the shit out of my taste buds.

Chocolate cake is my favourite cake, so Monica lovingly made one for me. She lovingly made it so lovingly that it was beyond sweet. Even the kids couldn’t handle it, which says a lot because they can usually inhale sugar without much problem. Sit back, kids, and watch the master in action! Ha!

Below: My piece of cake. The icing on this fucker meant business and I was up for the challenge.

piece of chocolate cake

Below: This is about the halfway point. I systematically eat cake by consuming the majority of cake first while leaving equal depth ratio of icing with remainder of cake. (That sentence may not have made sense, as I’m still quite possibly suffering the mind-altering effects of the icing.) I eat the cake first. Then leave the icing on a bit of cake for last. So if the icing is .5cm thick, I will leave approximately .5cm of cake. It was at this point that the cake was making my gums twitch. Also, I was into my third cup of coffee, so things were getting interesting. I can recall the feeling of my belt tightening like a python around my waist. Washing it down with even more coffee was making my asshole pucker – possibly a defence mechanism for any sudden intestinal rejection.

piece of eaten cake

Below: 3:20 pm. Bottom right is my empty plate. The big piece of cake in the middle is what was left. At this point, I was beginning to wonder what might come out. Molasses ass bowl of tar. I was thinking one could hook my ass to a funnel and wheel me out to the street to seal the cracks in asphalt with this blend of coffee and cake.

chocolate cake on a platter

And so I enter another year, kickstarted by cake!

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