My friends treated me to a nice lunch today complete with 3 huge slices of cake complete with sparklers. Woah man, that cake was huuuuge! One slice was double the height of your regular puny slice, layered alternately with chocolate cake and chocolate cream, then smothered magnificently with Oreo bits, chocolate chips or marshmallows. We barely got through half of it before feeling a little overchocked, too rich too sweet.
My chocolate tolerance level is as high as Elton John is gay. Which means very, very, very. Chocolate qualifies as one of my major food groups and can be eaten at any time of the day, on any occasion or lack thereof, in any mood or state of mind. It is a natural aphrodisiac, face-lifter and anti-depressant rolled into one - a viagrabotoxprozac miracle. If there’s no chocolate in heaven, I’m not going. Better have a chocolate waterfall à la Willy Wonka as well.
But this chocolate was just too sweet and in the end, we went with arteries and synapses so clogged with chocolate that nausea set in. What a beautiful way to remember my 22nd birthday: The day I got sick from chocolate. And I got a beautiful box of chocolates for a present as well.
22. *sigh* There’s no escaping being a responsible, mature, sensible adult now. 21 is the year of transition, or otherwise affectionately known as the year of denial. 21 is the year with the ‘perks’, the right to watch R rated movies and to vote (uh-huh). 22 is just adding another line of chalk to the wall of your cell, no more niceties until you’re 65. You’re just another face, another number, another slave, work work work and contribute to society!
Let’s have another year of denial shall we? And maybe a few more after that. I don’t feel like a responsible, mature, sensible adult yet.
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