"I want to have that nut cake." Which one, this one, partial nut and partial cream? That one? Banana on a sugary dream? Plums in a rare delight? Creamy strawberries, wholesome bright?
Choices were unlimited, the foreseeable future in the form of the fat motherly baker, gained me compassion. "I will have each of these 2" and cakes with hot chocolate was served right on.
Voices dragged me. Voices gloomily predicted fat days. Rebuked, threatened, I avoided all those hindering special effects. I fought on. Creamy strawberry tow tow, nut cake chow chow, cheesecake on the go, oh, can you please pack one of these cute little fatty choco cakes too?
No denying. Running away from some hard facts in life, my legs almost always broke down by them cakes. It was one long fat song I was singing everyday. There is nothing wrong with the world when a nusskuchen is right across the street, where colleagues give you moral support and another reason for a tub sundae, and pounds of fat gleefully get in and stay tight by your sides...
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