I swear to God. I don't care if they're made out of cocoa truffle pesto with sustainable yak butter-based sprinkles and wrapped in edible gold filigree papers. I refuse. It is a cupcake and I am a grown woman and you are a 36-year old man and there is a line for chrissake.
I don't care how famous the bakery is or if it was featured on The Sopranos.
I hate that cupcake store. Oh Jesus, you can see the line from five blocks away. It's ridiculous. Look at those girls. Look at those men. They must be deranged. The only justification for standing in a line that long is when you're waiting to vote for President.
Of the World.
If you make me stand with those people it's over between us. You obviously have unresolved childhood issues you think can be solved with buttercream.
I seriously want to open up a shop next door to that poncy hellhole that sells real slices of normal, well-adjusted, adult-sized cakes. At my store, if you want cake, you have two options; yellow with chocolate frosting or vanilla with vanilla frosting. Nothing fancy.
You just hold out your hands and I'd saw off a slab of it and plop it into them. You'd have to shove it into your yapper right there with everyone else who has decided that they need to consume large quantities of frosting immediately after Sunday brunch. My store has no pink printed boxes or decorative curly ribbon for you to carry it around all day like a high class accessory. It's cake damn it, not a Chanel clutch.
Where are you going? You are not buying one of those status cupcakes. I refuse to cross the street just to have a look. Fine. You go. If you are so set on emasculating yourself, you can find me on that bench down the street. What's that? You can get me a coffee. Black. That's all. Ok. Fine. And something with pistachios but you have to carry it.