At the end of a hard day, I just want to treat myself. Work is stressful and dating is taxing so sometimes a lady just needs to put a few basic ingredients in a mug, pop it in the microwave, and make a mug cake. Yeah, it’s a cake for one person that you make in a microwave, but I don’t need anyone’s judgment about “making a shitty cake” cause I’m “all alone.” So everybody just hop off my dick—I’m making a mug cake, okay?
If you have a problem with me taking five minutes out of my day to microwave a personal cake in a coffee mug instead of buying a better, more delicious cake from a store, you can just go punch yourself in the nuts. I have every right to dump flour, sugar, cocoa powder, and caramel in a mug and zap it until it’s a sort of okay treat if I feel like it. Then I deserve it eat it so fast it burns my tongue while I make yet another mug cake.
Just get off your high horse and deal with it, because I’m not fucking done making mug cakes yet.
Last Friday at the office, Ken kept hovering by my cubicle and badgering me about my weekend plans. My weekend plans are none of Ken’s business, so I did what any normal person would do: I ran into the office kitchen with my mug, then locked the door and started mixing ingredients. Cheryl kept banging on the kitchen door shouting, “This is a communal space!” And I said, “Get off my jock, Cheryl—I’m making a motherfucking mug cake!”
I mean, can I live, Cheryl? Can I fucking live?
So what if the only time I really feel like myself is when I’m shoveling mediocre cake-for-one into my sad fucking face? Like, stop riding me! So what if I made a lemon mug cake at 11:30pm and then masturbated for three hours straight while still holding the mug? If you’ve got a problem with that, you can go fuck a horse or something cause I’m about to fuck this mug cake and nobody’s about to stop me.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my mug and a small cup of cake. If you’ve got a problem with that, you can go spend $9 on a regular slice of cake, fuck off and die!
