In Which We Grow Older

The only reason it is acceptable to become a year older is because it is tradition to mark this horrendous occasion with a delicious cake. Birthdays, the reason cake became a celebrity.

On particularly shocking milestone birthdays, the only way to seek consolation is in a cake so absurd it ceases to make any sense at all. There is neither rhyme nor reason. There is neither here nor there. There is just cake. This cake.



Happy 25th birthday… You poor bastard.



Cake is the ruler of all brunch. He sits on his throne, mocking his subjects.



Looks like mangled carcass. Just like the soul after 25 years.

So delicious. So melancholy.
We can't outrun time (especially after eating cake.)