Noon had just hit when you came into my life. We walked into the freshly unlocked door and you sat there, visible through the gleaming reflection on the glass in front of you.
I knew then that you would be my cupcakes.
At the request of my mother, my mission had been to bring you home. I had been reluctant at first, but the very sight of you made any hesitancy disappear.
The gentleman behind the counter gently place you each in the box. Soon, a sea of chocolate, caramel, and peanut butter icings stared back at me and we were on our way.
Up until now, the plan had gone perfectly. I was gently carrying you to your new resting place, navigating each bump just so, when it struck me. I was about to carry each and everyone of you for ten hours in the back of a 2002 Oldsmobile.
It was an impossible mission.
Since you are cupcakes, you are probably unaware of the problems here. Cars are just giant pieces of metal hurtling across bumpy roads at ridiculous speeds. It can be difficult to keep things from sliding about wildly. If any of you were to slip inside of your box, all that would be left is a deluge of crumbled cake and a sticky ocean of frosting.
I suddenly understood how parents feel transporting their newborn children. In fact, it is even worse. Most parents are not transporting 12 babies at a time. Plus, they don’t have to worry about their babies crumbling.
I guess what I’m trying to say, my dear cupcakes, is that I am sorry. I have put you in a terribly dangerous situation. If anything happens to you, know how sorry I am.
Also know that I will still eat each and everyone of you. I mean, you can’t waste a good cupcake no matter how smashed and deformed it is.