You can keep it

I have come to the realization, after countless disappointing experiences, that cake just doesn’t do it for me. Every time I eat cake, thinking I will “treat” myself because hey, I work out so so hard and I “deserve” the thrills that a piece of cake is supposed to provide, I am left frowning out into space, thinking, 96% of the time aloud, “That was so not worth it.”
I don’t care where the cake is from, who made it, how much or what kind of chocolate was involved in its creation, or how many giggly tarts come popping out of it with strategically placed frosting and a cherry on top, it never lives up to my expectations. While it is true that I have very high standards and thus expect a lot from everything that has even the most marginal impact on my life, I don’t think it’s asking too much for cake to at least make me happy I ate it.
Years ago I went to a wedding where the cake, I was told, ad nauseam, was going to be the highlight of the whole affair. After enduring the most excruciating vows ever written — painful not only because they were riddled with more cliches than a valedictory speech but also because the bride and groom thought it would be fabulous if they both used the same interminable vows, thus forcing an already squirming congregation to listen to the tripe twice — I thought, well, it won’t take much to top this. But as it turned out, the cake, the most expensive part of the wedding, I was told, given that it was created by a very famous cake guy out of white and dark chocolate of the finest quality to be found on the planet, was about as inspired as a Ring Ding chilled in my refrigerator overnight.
If you can tell me where to find cake that will make me not want to dismiss it a la Marie Antoinette, please let me know. But please also know that if it, too, fails to persuade me that cake is not a total waste of time, I will wish her fate upon you.
So, in sum, to bastardize my own quote, found in the sidebar, “Feh. Cake-cake.”