The Breakup

OK, cake. Listen up.

You hate me, and I hate you. So, here’s the deal. We absolutely cannot see each other anymore. We are through. Finito. Done.

Don’t look at me like that. Don’t act so shocked. You knew this was coming. Our relationship has been shaky for months. And I have to say it, as cruel as it sounds…I just don’t find you tasty anymore.

Oh, who am I kidding. What am I even saying? God, it’s not true at all, not a word of it. I’m lying. I’m heartless. I love you, you sweet, chocolaty slice of heavenly bliss. Truly I do! How could I spout such cruel words like “hate” and “finito”, and especially “not tasty”? Oh, how could I even think of treating you so shabbily? It isn’t me saying these ugly things, I swear! It’s…HER.

I think it’s because she’s jealous of you, you scrumptious pile of sugary layers. She’s jealous of your perfection. Your moistness. The absolute harmony you and my tastebuds have when you meet up and begin to tango together. I’d get rid of her if I could, I swear to you I would. Then we could be together always. Like we used to be. Remember? Remember when she didn’t exist? It was just you and me, and we were so happy.

But then, she sneaked in one day. Stealthy, like a fox. And now…well, she’s always here, you see? Judging us. Poisoning me against you. Telling me horrible things. Like how bad and evil you are. How you’re out to get me. How I should have nothing to do with you. And…oh my dear, dear love…please forgive me…she’s so persuasive. I’m starting to listen to her. I don’t mean to, honestly, I don’t. I try to shut my ears, but she’s so firmly stuck inside my head now. Oh, the horrible things she says about you!

And you torment her on purpose, don’t you? You’re a bit spiteful too, admit it. Every time you meet her, you taunt her and get all in-your-face about our relationship. You won’t let her forget it, how much more I love you than her. It humiliates her, don’t you see? Now, honestly…whose side am I supposed to take? Yours or hers?

I know…I know. I shouldn’t take sides. I should trust in you, and only you, my beautiful brown stack of love. But here’s the thing. My whole body is beginning to take her side. They’re revolting against me. Me, the person who has cared for them all these years. I mean, my skin is now covering layers of invasive fat. I don’t know how the hell that fat crept in. But it’s there. And my skin is in league with it. It tries to hide the fat from me, but I’m not blind. Folds of the stuff have totally obliterated my belly button—sucked it in to a blubbery black hole. And don’t get me started on the rebellion my digestive tract is involved in. My intestines rumble and groan and give me shooting pains every time you and I hold a secret rendezvous. My stomach has started spurting up geysers of acid into my esophagus, as consistent as Old Faithful.

Now, I know none of this can possibly be your fault. But she insists that she isn’t the bad guy. She says she’s trying to help me, but she’s taken to threatening me with worse things…horrible things yet to come…unless I cease and desist any more late-night assignations with you. She’s warning of additional fat that my already weak back will have to carry. Extra weight to stress my creaky knees. And scary diseases…she’s whispered the names to me in my dreams: diabetes, fatty liver, hardened arteries. Horrible, horrible words, you understand?

So, as much as I love you, I have to let you go. Please don’t cry. Don’t mess up your fluffy, fudgy frosting on my account. I’m not worth it, truly I’m not. If I had any backbone, I’d tell her to go straight to hell. I’d run off with you and never listen to her again. But, I can’t. She’s in my head, you see? She’s lodged herself in there and I can’t get her out.

I know, deep in my heart, you’ll find someone who will love you with all the passion that I do. Well, maybe not quite as much. No one will ever surpass my undying fervor for you. It just isn’t physically possible. I love you that much. But I must let you go.

Oh, how I’ll miss you. I’ll miss that wonderful chocolaty taste on my tongue.

I’ll miss the sweet swirly softness of your frosting.

I’ll even miss the dry leftover crumbs I find the next day on the unwashed plate. The last sweet reminders of our secret love.

<<<>>>

She first barged into our lives after that fateful visit to Dr. Paulson’s office, when he gave me the grave news.

“You are borderline diabetic,” he said.

“Which means…?” I prompted.

“It means you need to lose weight. Cut down on your sugar intake. Exercise. Drop at least twenty pounds.”

I celebrated that news with you, remember? Well, it was more like a commiseration than a celebration as I tried to figure out how to cut calories and sugar without damaging our relationship.

“I’ll start eating wheat bran for breakfast,” I said. “And more protein, of course. Wholesome vegetables at least once a day. But there’ll still be room for you, don’t you worry. The doc didn’t say I had to give up sugar completely. Just to cut down on it.”

And that’s where she butted into our conversation and said, “Who are you kidding, girl? Chocolate cake is your sugar intake. You cut it out of your life, and you’ll have smooth sailing. Doc Paulson will be so impressed with your improvement next time you visit, he’ll probably give you a gold star and a lollipop.”

I ignored her. I shoveled you into my mouth and chewed loudly, to drown out her unwanted advice.

A week later, after I’d jogged a gazillion miles and pumped iron at the gym until my arms threatened to fall off, I stared at the scale numbers glaring up at me from between my toes.

“How the hell did I go UP in weight?” I screamed.

“You finished each workout session with a slab of chocolate cake,” she said. “That’s how.”

And so it began. The constant fight with my conscious over you. And unfortunately, my wonderous glop of confectionary brilliance, she’s winning the fight. She’s beating my will to a miserable pulp. You, unfortunately, are no match for her.

<<<>>>

So that’s it. There’s simply nothing else we can do except say goodbye. Oh, the world is cruel, isn’t it, my one true love? I’ll tell you what, just one last little kiss. For old time’s sake. One more tiny lick of frosting…

Or maybe just a teeny bite.

Or a forkful, that should do.

Just this one last slice. Then we’re through. Finito. I swear.