The cake whispered sweet nothings into my ear. It made promises of gastronomical delights I had not experienced in years. The temptation was too much for this average person to ignore, and so I had a sliver of the cake.
And then I had another, and a third.
Eating the cake was not something I did. It was an experience. It brought back feelings of a time when I was young, free, and invincible.
Feeling exuberant as though I had reclaimed a piece of myself that had been lost during the turbulent times of my teenage years, I decided to head home for the night.
Hours later, I lay in bed writhing in pain. Something inside me was pushing to get out, to escape my intestines. I thought of the cake. I called it an alien cake.
As I thrashed in my bed all alone, wishing for a soothing touch to calm the fury deep inside, I knew there was nothing I could do, but accept the truth.
The cake was a lie.