I recently ate one of your cakes out of my neighbor’s garbage. This was after a bachelorette party I was invited to listen to through a glass pressed up against our shared wall, and honestly, it was disgusting. I know what you’re thinking. I know because I’m very intuitive, in that I can tell when people are passing judgement on me because they haven’t taken the time to get to know the real me, like who I am when I’m chilling with my neighbor friends, leaning against the wall and doing the secrets knocks. One knock means “Can I come over and party with you guys?” Two knocks means “Did you guys hear me knocking just now?” What I’m saying is, a lot of quizzes my niece’s friends post on her Facebook wall confirm that I have great depth of person and near-psychic intuition because I’m a bit of a “GIF-diagnosed introvert.”
Side note: I guess all afflictions come with a silver lining, like how when my neighbor was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer, I learned where the pancreas is, and how to spell pancrease, and how to make homemade Febreze (1 parts bleach, poured into a spray bottle) so the air outside my door doesn’t catch with her pancriaze germs.
So no, your cake wasn’t disgusting because it came from the cold, filthy paws of the raccoon I killed for it. For the record, I suggested we split the cake remains, but as you’ve probably experienced yourself, sharing is a real bugaboo for a raccoon. Much like washing their goddamn paws before sitting down to eat—they simply won’t do it. Also for the record, I did not set out to kill this raccoon, so please don’t send animal services after me. I can’t handle seeing Derek right now. I think he might’ve been “the one.” What happened was I’d replaced the water in my raccoon spray bottle with bleach, but never changed the label because Derek took the label maker with him when he left, along with the Tums and my faith in love and our shared copy of “An Idiot’s Guide to Eastern Religion.” So when I whacked the raccoon with the bottle, it was full of bleach which obviously, is denser than water.
I’m also not complaining because you seriously overcharge for your cakes. Although you do. Someone had to say it, and I guess it might as well be me, a future (hopefully) paying customer. Earlier tonight when I was searching “how to write a letter of complaint” in my bookmarks tab, I decided to check out your company’s website. Not because I wanted to see pictures of erotic cakes—I’m more of a medical textbook girl myself—but because I wanted to make sure what I’d ingested after burying that raccoon in some rotting leaves was gluten-free (it was not). And while I was there I noticed you’re charging thirty dollars for a single cake, when you know your customers can hardly afford treatment for their pincrease.
And don’t think I was offended by the adult content of the cake—as I hinted above, I’m not a prude—and anyway the bachelorette party had already eaten the dingaling. Truth be told, all that was left in my neighbor’s trash was a smear of pink icing on a cardboard box. I think what I’m getting at here is that the icing was very sweet. And grainy. And covered in pigeon feathers. And it smelled bad, like garbage.