Why Cupcakes Are Deliciously Evil

Whoever thought of cupcakes must have been some sort of evil genius. When I was little, I was amazed that there were cakes that were not only small enough to fit in my mouth and be gone within 5 bites, but you can say that you ate 5 of them and no one would judge you for that. Now, let's go into the breakdown of why cupcakes are delicious and yet so very bad for you.

#1: They're LITTLE CAKES!!!

The PRO:

They're little cakes. What better pro is than they're little baked goods? I have never met a person that didn't like something in its miniture form, unless it was steak or ice cream. And even then there was at least one person who would spend about 5 minutes cooing over how adorable they find it. Even then, after the rage was built up, the common defense was, "But...it's a LITTLE CAKE!!" It's literally like a baby cake. That's what it is. Cupcake=baby cake. And who doesn't love babies?

The CON:

They're little cakes. Seriously, you eat one, and you're not sure how that computes into an actual slice. So you eat another. And another. And before you know it, you're sitting on the floor of your kitchen with an empty dish next to you, frosting smeared over your face, and you're calling your friend crying because the sugar is have an unholy jihad on your intestines. Case in point: cupcake=baby cake=eating more to feel full=so much guilt it's almost like you ate a human baby.

#2: Easy To Share

The PRO:

The scene goes like this: you're at a birthday party, an anniversary, a wedding, some kind of shindig that calls for a delicious baked good. But who's going to cut the cake? Who's going to responsible for that person that will inevitable getting short shifted with the sliver of a slice because they couldn't visualize how to cut that cake into 15 equal pieces? (And for those of you that don't believe me, draw it out. It's difficult)

But wait! There in the distance! Riding in (metaphorically or realistically; I don't know how crazy your head party is) on that noble white steed, is the CUPCAKE!! That sweet baby cake that will give everyone an equal portion of cake no matter what. Everyone gets their own cake, everyone gets to be happy and hyper on sugar. Problem solved.

The CON:

Maybe it's just me, and I'm just being old fashioned, but cutting the cake at a party is part of the tradition. Nothing says wedding reception to me like getting a photo out of it of the groom and bride smiling happily while cake is all over their face. I do understand that you can do that with cupcakes, but when you really think about it, how dainty and hygienic of you, smashing a baby cake into your beloved's face while you get to hold on to that little paper wrapper. Plus, a bigger problem is when number 1 comes into play: they're little cakes. How are you supposed to tell your 200+ guests at your wedding that they're only allowed one cupcake until everyone else has had their turn? Really? I don't know how your family and friends work, but I know some people who would turn to me while shoving 3 or 4 cupcakes in their pockets and purses while simultaneously thanking me for inviting them. And getting between them and their sugar fix could get me to lose a hand, and that's no way to start a honeymoon.

#3: Personalized Decorations

The PRO:

You have an 8 year old's party to attend. You don't know what to do except panic because you promised to bring the cake because you wanted to help the mom out of her own personal hell of planning a child's birthday party. On top of that, she's one of those progressive moms that invited both boys and girls, and based on your limited knowledge of children, boys and girls like different things.

I'd like to point out at this point that I'm not trying to shove children into gender roles at 8 years old. It seems to be the common conception though that girls like bunnies and Hello Kitty and other small and adorable things (thus the greatness of baby cakes for girls), while boys like trucks and dinosaurs and smashing things into each other's faces but cry as soon as they see blood so it has to be something soft (thus the greatness of baby cakes for boys). Plus, with cupcakes you can put trucks on some, ballerinas on others, and so on and so forth, and suddenly, boom! You have happy 8 year old children, which is a blessing when they're all hyped on sugar and probably have access to blunt objects.

The CON:

For anyone that hasn't done this, then you probably don't know how much time and effort this takes, especially when you're doing more than one decoration on the cupcake. Now, I'm a fatass, and sit around on my couch most of the day watching the Food Network, especially Cupcake Wars, which is why I know how stressful it is to do something like that. These poor people have an hour and a half to bake and decorate 36 cupcakes and they almost run out of time every time. And those are the professionals. Can you imagine how well you'll do with 24 within an hour? Yea, I thought so.

And so, with every pro, there is a con. And with every con, there's someone like me to point it out and make you just have pies for every party. I guess the moral to this story is that cupcakes are great. Greatly EVIL.

My Rant on Del Taco

I love Del Taco. I love the chicken burrito, I love the fact that they sell you a 1/2 pound of beans and cheese wrapped in a tortilla for 99 cents. I even love the fact that they give you fries instead of chips because let's face it, you're already eating so much soft food at this point that your teeth will pass out from the shock if they had to bite into a chip.

But there are things I don't like about Del Taco. The main thing is that Del Taco seems to fail to employ anyone who has an IQ higher than 68. And that is being generous, considering how they're a step above "imbecile", according to good old Wikipedia. So basically, the people at Del Taco are considered "morons" in my humble opinion.

Now, I think this is the time to put up the disclaimer. I haven't gone to every Del Taco in existence. I have only been to the Del Tacos that are within my area. But I have been to about 4 or 5 different ones and the experience has basically been the same, hence the broad judgement. Also, I'm not paid to advertise or tear down Del Taco; I just love their burritos but hate their service.

Anyway.

The reason this came to be is because every time I have gone to Del Taco it really is the same thing: I order food, they repeat it back to me, I say yes because confirming it should somehow be some sort of guarantee that your food will show up hot, be present and accounted for, so you can give them the money and drive away, possibly eating the burrito in the car or in the dark, little hole you call a home. But what REALLY happens is that after I order, and they repeat it, and I confirm, and I drive up to the window or just move over to the "pick up" station, they hand me food that is missing not just one, but TWO OR MORE things, or doesn't have a drink. Or has a drink that you didn't order and don't understand why they charged you for it, or the BEST one had to be when I ordered food in the drive thru and said I wanted an iced tea with it. The lady asked something that sounded like if I wanted ice in my drink. I didn't think much of it, considering how some people are picky, so I just responded in the affirmative. I pull up, pay, grab my food and drink, and drive away.

Now, this is after a long, hard, obnoxious day of work. Where all I want to do is just sink my teeth into something someone else cooked so I can work as little as possible to get fed. The burrito tasted spicy (but just to clarify before people start calling me "phony": I'm a baby when it comes to spiciness. It's just a fact.) so I grabbed my iced tea and took a sip. And....

It was a Coke. It was a Coke with ice in it. I felt the bubbles move their way across my tongue like an army marching through enemy territory. My tongue felt violated. I actually don't really drink sodas, which is why it was such a shock. Although it was also a shock that they somehow mixed up "iced tea" with "Coke". But even though things are missing, drink orders are messed up, and whenever I try to order from them to their faces everyone that works there seems to have a vacant expression on their faces as if I came in, stood on my head, and started screaming in Gaelic, I love the food. And will keep eating it until I'm too fat to get to them.

And by that time I hope they've developed a delivery system.

A PSA for Women

Remember when the world had good ideas? When people were able to come up with something original and not have to worry about whether or not they're infringing on other peoples' ideas? I can not possibly be the first person to pose this question, and am surely not the last. I almost starting typing song lyrics. SONG LYRICS, for crying out loud! Why didn't I start off with something from my head? Something that's been swirling around in my mind and just waiting around like some random person who didn't bother to call in for an appointment for the DMV so they're stuck standing in line for hours until they get to the front and find out that they needed to be in a different line, with a different form, and they can't come back until they have the correct form and information and can juggle.
Speaking of things that seem to have left the world, where is the class of women? My friend (my best friend, and I love her very much) wore shorts with knee high socks and knee high, high heeled boots with a tank top to her birthday party. I honestly asked her what her asking price was. I mean, she's gorgeous and tiny, so it looked okay on her, but even on her it was pushing it. I remember wearing that one day at school and have never felt so uncomfortable in my entire freshman year of college. Granted, it was hotter than I thought it was and the boots ended up being little death traps for my poor feet, but at least they had a flat foot.
Now, I really don't think I could be labeled as "old-fashioned". I find a lot of the new fashions out this season to actually be harkening back to the days of the 1970s, but no one buying it really knows because they don't know the history of fashion, just that it has a high price tag and a designer label. I'm starting to think even fashion designers just drag things out of the back of their closet, update the colors, and call it a new and original design. But when you think about it, it isn't like everyone just got dumb; we've all pushed a lot of stuff to as far was we're willing to let it go. Go onto google.com and look up Lady Gaga. Doesn't she look just ridiculous? Of course she does: she's pushed the envelope of fashion, and the majority of Americans, even people on Earth, are willing to follow in her footsteps.
Which brings me back to the question of the missing class in the preteen/teen/young women. Heck, even the middle aged women are getting in on it. If you're over 30 and wearing a mini skirt, I have one question for you: WHY??? I mean, if you have just FABULOUS legs and can pull it off well, then by all means, pull on some tights or pantyhose and go for it. But don't flop around in a mini skirt and tank top with bare legs showing and heels like you're 16. Because no matter what your plastic surgeon tells you, you're not 16. You're 36. It's time to realize that 20 years is really a difference. Also, a message to all the young teeny-boppers out there: look down. Seriously, just tilt your head and look down at your feet. Do you see them? If yes, then don't wear tiny, low cut shirts. YOU HAVE NOTHING TO SHOW (and even if you DO have something to show, why are you giving out the goods to unworthy patrons? Like those idiot boys in your math class who keep sharpening their pencils because every time they do they have to walk past your desk and they act like they want to know where you are on the worksheet while drool is practically running out of their mouths while they're trying to use their X-ray vision to see right through your head and down your shirt.) And don't try to justify it (this includes those moms that BUY these clothes for these little girls) by saying because there's nothing to show then it's not scandelous.

The answer here is NO.

Moms, don't start teaching your daughter that it's okay to start showing their cleavage before it even exists. And girls, if you're saying that you can't see your feet because of your stomach, I'd like to take this moment to point out that as long as you're eating healthy foods and getting adequete exercise, you do NOT have to worry about it: things redistribute during pubity. It's the same reason guys suddenly have hair on their chest, legs, arms, and other places you shouldn't be seeing at your age, their voices drop, and they have a sudden urge to hurl rocks at things.
So ladies, I know it's 2010. We have the right to vote, we're still being paid less than men (stupid, I know, but true), and the news makes a HUGE deal if four women win places in the American government on one night. I'm not saying become a bra burning feminist, or one of those feminist that get offended by everything a man says to them; that's just dumb. All I'm saying is that it's not that hard to dress with some class. Stop flashing your crotch, your non existant boobs/cleavage, your cleavage that's starting to get liver spots and needs a bra, corset, and girdle to hold them up. Stop looking like you're in your 20s. I don't even LOOK like I'm in my 20s, and I AM in my 20s. So moms, teach your daughters it's okay to wear a one piece bathing suit, that short shorts are not appropriate attire for their friend's 9th birthday party, and just because the kid V neck halters look "oh so cute", they don't have to wear things that revealing. And daughters, if you feel like you know a woman who's still dressing like their a kid/teen, it's time to call it like it is. Having a childlike sense of wonder=good. Having a childlike wardrobe=bad.

Strike Up the Band and Pour Yourself a Beer Ringo; George isn't Coming Tonight

This is very stupid.

My eyes hurt, my head hurts, and my hormones hurt. It's too cliche to say that my heart hurts, and mostly because it's not true. My heart feels fine; it's beating along nicely, everything feels in tip top shape right there in my peristrunum sac....wait....did I just almost recall something from anatomy? That was weird.

Anyway.

My eyes hurt because I was staring at this pop art that I'm painting for my friend (word of advice: NEVER think, "A zebra head? How novel!! Oh, what's this, lots and lots of tiny, thin lines? I will have no problem whatsoever painting it with this 1/2" brush!"). My head hurts probably because my eyes hurt, except it's coming from the back and my neck, so it's more likely that I'm just tired. My problem is that despite my blunt and sometimes cutting wit (I'm paraphrasing someone else; I just think I have a big mouth), I really do like being a nice person. It's fun. It usually gets you stuff. It also gets you to stay up for hours while your roommate is typing a philosophy paper.

My hormones hurt because her partner for this photo project was here, and he reminded me of one of my exes, but less awkward. This of course makes him very attractive, and I haven't so much as flirted with a guy for about two months. Ok, that's a lie. But I haven't put much effort into the flirting. I guess the break up hurt me more than I thought. Oh, yea, I got broken up with. I don't like saying "dumped" very much because it sounds like I'm just some animal or grandparent that just gets left at a truck stop with the hope that someone will come along and put me in a shelter or a home.

If the grandparent thing offends you, sorry; I've read Choke by Chuck Palahniuk recently. If you know that book, that should probably explain everything.

So he walks in, and unlike the last time, I was clothed, and painting, and laughing at the Muppets' Treasure Island movie playing on YouTube. This, surprisingly, seems more embarassing to me in retrospect than the first time he was here. I thought my roommate was leaving to go to his house or dorm or whatnot, and I was tired of wearing jeans. I was changing into my pajamas, and lucky for me, decided to wear my bra until I was crawling into bed, because right as I was snapping my bra into place and pulling it up, my roommate opens the door.

Promptly, she shuts it, going, "Sorry!". I thought it was odd, and only part of me was thinking that she had a guy with her; she usually just has girlfriends come up (no, we're both straight; keep those thoughts to yourself). So I pulled on my shirt and yelled, "Okay!", but she wasn't opening the door again. So I walk up and swing the door open, and see her standing there with a rather attractive guy that put me in the indescision of going red from embarassment or just flashing him and showing him what he missed.

Thankfully for everyone, I chose the third option, where I just smiled and introduced myself to him. I doubt he saw anything, and if he did, it would've just been my back. But I like to think that my back's my best feature, so thank goodness we got off on the right foot.

So he and her were working on this photo project, and I can't remember what I was doing at that time, then he walked out, with my roommate walking with him to outside our dorm. The second time, I remember that he smelled good, he's artistic, and I have dated guys like him before, and it never ends well. But oh gee, is the ride FUN.

This is something I'm not planning on sharing with my roommate. I have a feeling that she likes him, and considering that she has his number, they're in the same class, and she's prettier than me, I'm pretty much sunk. Besides, she's also "very particular" about guys, so if she finds a guy that she likes, I'm not going to take him away from her. That's just rude.

So here I am, my hormones subsided because for some reason I'm starting to smell skunk, my head pain moving down my spine, which is probably just a strong signal to go to sleep, and my eyes drooping shut, which is just my whole body threatening to collapse if I don't go to sleep pronto. And besides, once the project's over, I doubt I'll ever see him again. I don't think he lives on campus, and my school's kind of big; you don't exactly bump into people a lot here. But don't cry for me, readertina (Evita; funny musical...but only because they have Madonna playing Evita), he and I will always have Paris. Or more like that poster of the Eiffel Tower that we have on our door. But you get the point.

You're talking, but all I hear is "blah blah blah"

I love you, I really do. But if I have to hear about your messed up lives one more time, I'm not only sending my own head through a wall, but I'm taking you with me. I'm kind of hoping that you'd hit a stud. Honestly, I don't know how I manage to end up being the one that has to solve the world, and when I can't, I'm suddenly rendered as something useless. You want your desires filled, I fill them. You want your girlfriend problems solved, I advise. But if you have to come to me to get your girlfriend problems solved and get your desires filled, I'm not longer your friend; I'm now just a free whore. You don't even have to pay me, except in just saying that you're my friend. I just think that's complete shit. I could be making hundreds of dollars giving the public what I give you all the time, but no, because I get shy or whatever.

By the way, have you noticed at ALL that all your problems end up stemming from the same cause? Don't you realize that all you have to do is talk to the cause? Do not get me wrong; I LOVE helping. I feel like it's my only purpose as your friend, but it's fun. I like being involved and helping you solve whatever crisis you have. But I'm done with being your whore. Date me, or forget about it. Because I can only hope that you and I would have more in common than just the insane urge to fuck each other, despite how you have a girlfriend.

Let's Talk About Sex

This probably isn't the best subject for me to do, considering that I'm still a virgin, but considering the media's obsession with it, and considering my obsession with various types of media, I suddenly feel a strange urge to record my thoughts on the "forbidden labamba", or whatever else you want to call it (my favorite's the "horizontal polka"...really, that's just ridiculous to imagine :P) Pardon my use of smileys if it bugs you, but I really like them, and they're conversation savers when I'm trying to talk to someone online and my sarcasm kicks in, and before you know it, they think I'm serious, and I know I was kidding, so ta-da! A little smiley with the tongue sticking out suddenly saves me from having to explain the joke.

But I digress. I'm supposed to be talking about my feelings on sex. Don't misunderstand, I find sex a very important part of the living experience and plan on having it on a regular basis when I'm ready for it. But when did the most primal of all instincts, besides eating, become so taboo? When are there suddenly rules and regulations and you have to do this, and this position's considered "the freak" position, and kinky is only in the eye of the beholder, because what if all a person had were "kinky" partners, and then they hooked up with someone who just wanted a simply missionary position, and then the first person considers THAT as "kinky". And what about all the safety that has to be taken now? When did "casual sex" become so popular? Has it hit anyone yet that if no one has had casual sex, then the whole "using protection" thing wouldn't be as bad?

And you can make a living off of selling sex. Porn, prostitutes (notice how they both start in p...then again, so does pedofile) are apparentally real money makers if you're doing it right. But it's basically the only basic human survival trait that you can really make a living off of. I've never really seen a professional eater. Or a pro sleeper. Or a trained and licensed pooer...ew. Anyway, my point is is that we as a culture are over glamorizing sex, and we as Americans all think we know what we're doing when it comes to the romps in the bedroom, and if we're virgins, we should damn well know it anyway, because there's that chance you end up hooking up with someone that's NOT a virgin and you are, and suddenly you keep thinking that you don't want to screw up, so you watch movies and read Cosmo and freak out when one of your friends loses their virginity before you.

So I think media needs to lay off for a little while. There's plenty of ways to entertain the masses without putting sex into the equation. After all, Lassie never had to lay ANYONE.

Let's Rock and Roll

Every feel like it's one of those days? Granted, I don't think everyone has one of those days where they're lying bloody in the middle of an alleyway as the rain falls down into your face, but hey, if you've ever had a day where you felt like you've been hit by a train, flew through the air, and landed in a pile of dog shit, then you probably know how I feel right now. But I'm getting ahead of myself; I haven't even said who I was.

I'm 24 year old single female. Brown hair, brown eyes, short, nice figure; you know, the normal stuff. If you really want me to get specific, I guess I could say that my eyes can turn black, and that my hair is blackish brown with dark red highlights, but then again, why would anyone want to know these things? They're just details. Details that no one really wants to hear, but at the same time, are dying to know so they can totally understand who they're reading about. Well, fine. Let me tell you who you're reading about.

I am a human. a human being that has made some bad, bad mistakes. Ones that have gotten people killed, ones that led up to me lying there, coughing and trying hard to keep the blood on my face from getting into my mouth and seeping down into my lungs. I don't plan on going out like this, even though I was left for dead. I guess now you're yelling at the screen, demanding that I start from the beginning to so you can understand what the fuck is going on. Goodness, you're an impatient person.

PART I

I was born to a mother, no one else. My mother, Jane Harrif, never mentioned my father; she didn't seem to find him all that important to mention, so I never saw the point of trying to figure out who he was. We got along with one another well enough. Sure, there were the normal teenager vs. parent argument, but those never lasted long; after all, we were all the other had in the hell hole we had to call "home".

Bah, "home". Damn word. Damn place. My mother and I ended up in multiple apartments, going from place to place, trying to find some place that got me into a good enough school, and got my mom some extra spending money; that woman was addicted to manicures. She moved from salon to salon, each time being fired for the same reason: "mistreating the customers". I didn't want to know what they were talking about the first time my mother relayed this to me, and preferably, I'd rather keep this secret from me.

But the part of my life started when my mom and I seemed to have finally found a place in Chicago that was decent enough. This place had two beds and running water without a landlord hooked on crack; it was perfect. I was at the tender age of twelve, and just started the sixth grade at some random middle school that I can't remember the name of, and considering the relentless teasing I had to take because of everything from my living conditions to my early development into womanhood, I'd prefer not to give the effort to try and give you the details for the sake of this story. After all, this IS my story.

But anyway. I was sitting at my desk, blazing through my math and reading and all that useless crap that I had to absorb and regurgitate in order to pass that year, when there was a knock at the door (don't all stories start like this? It's pretty sad that mine starts like this too). My mom was washing up some dishes, and she went to the door and looked through the door using that ingenious invention, aptly named the "peephole". Suddenly, I hear my mom gasp and before I knew it, she was throwing what few belongings she had into her bag and was in my room, throwing things into my duffel bag and telling me to get my toothbrush.

Being the inquisitive little girl that I was, I asked her what was going on. She snapped that I should start packing, and ask questions later, when we're not in danger of dying.

Now, if you want your child to move faster, the last thing to tell them is that they're in danger of dying; it's not exactly a morale booster. I freezed, staring at her with my jaw dropped and my eyes bugging out of my head. My mother turned to me and shoved my bag into my hands, then grabbed her's and ran for the window on the other side of the apartment. Blindly, I followed her. She threw up the window, and glanced down to see that the fire escape was empty. She then tossed out her bag, and climbed out after it, dragging me with her.

I started going down the fire escape, but my mom grabbed my sleeve, shook her head, and pointed up. The door was pounded on again, and as we neared the two floors above us, I could hear the crunching of wood that can only occur when someone large and dangerous was slamming their whole body weight against it. My mom and I ran up the fire escape as quietly as a woman in her late twenties with a twelve year old child could with a bag of everything they own each.

We finally reached the top of the building, and my mom went over the top onto the roof first. As I reaching up to follow her, I heard muffled voices, something that sounded like a struggle ensuing, and two gun shots rang in my ears. I crouched down under the roof overhang, trying hard not the scream. I was so sure that my mother was dead. The woman that raised me was probably lying there, her own blood slowly flowing out of her body-

My thoughts and silent grief were silenced when I heard footsteps and something dragging along the roof, and those sounds were growing, coming closer. I huddled there, hoping and praying that they would somehow miss me, whoever they are, or maybe even spare my life, let me be, drop me off at an orphanage, anything. I held my breath as the footsteps stopped, and I heard a grunt as something was heaved over the side. I dared a look at the figure that was flying over my head, destined for the pavement below.

Confusion bloomed as I looked at the corpse that was plummeting to Earth. This dead being was bigger than my mom, and most certainly male, in a dirty suit, the mud stained shirt covered with blood. I dared a glance up and saw my mother looking down at me, an impressive looking handgun strapped to her hip.

"Kessie," my mom stared down into my awe-struck face. "What on Earth are you doing? C'mon, we have to keep moving."

To be continued.