After I ate half of it. In two days.
People of the internet, hear me: I have no self control when it comes to sugar. I don't buy or make anything with sugar in it because I know myself; I'll eat all of it in two days. I will then proceed to itch like a fiend and feel like a team of hamsters moved into my stomach. I'm like one of those small children who eats too many of the sugared candies in the pretty glass bowl at Grandma's and then slugs around on the plastic-covered couch, flopping from side to side and moaning about a belly ache.
I am still a small child.
Mom made me my very own gluten-free, chocolate-free cake on Easter because she loves me. In two days, I ate half of it. Today, I had to throw out the rest because I knew that "hiding" it from sight by stashing it in the lazy Susan would not prevent me from remembering its existence even though that container of cottage cheese could be sitting in front of the refrigerator for two weeks and I'd "forget" about it. Also, it would not keep my husband from noticing how quickly the cake started losing its rectangular shape and turned into a mound of crumbled, sugary remains from my haphazardly digging into it (while my husband wasn't looking or listening because of YouTube videos about goats screaming) with a plastic spoon that lay next to the dish out of convenience, not forgetfulness.
If you're reading this, Mom, I'm sorry. Your cake was too delicious. Circumstance forced me to throw it away before my face became a pizza, and my digestive system decided to pack up its shit and get out. (Pun intended.) And, since Mother Nature visited me on the very day that you handed this cake to me, I really possessed zero control over my cake cravings. Who am I to argue with nature? If my husband even mildly liked sugar in some form other than Oreos, then I could share my cake with him. No, sir, the task of eating that 8x8 dish of Heaven fell to me and me alone. I couldn't very well feed it to the dogs and risk an astronomically high vet bill. So, I ate half of it, felt guilty, and fed the rest to the avocado and strawberry graveyard inside of our trashcan.
If you're reading this, Husband, I'm sorry. You might come home to find me sitting on the floor, criss cross applesauce, crying in front of the trashcan. No, not over spilled milk, my dear. Over cake. Over the cake I impulsively dumped into the trashcan and then beat up with a plastic spoon so that it was so irrevocably smashed into the smelly remains of yesterday's food that my dignity would eat me before I even considered rescuing the homemade icing and vanilla fluffiness from the depths of the refuse pile. I weep because I'm too smart for myself. Too smart for my lack of self control that now wants to kick its self righteous other half in the ass.
I'm sorry, self, you can have your cake, but you cannot eat it, too because I threw the rest of it away.