I’m ready to admit cake is just cake

I make pretty things and they make me angry. Angry because people think they’re pretty things and can’t see past their trivial nature and instead just assume I like making pretty things.

I make frivolous things full of sugar and butter and nonsense to distract from my own ugly anger, I’m creating something of substance, something ugly and repulsive but substantial and far less disconcerting than the nothingness I’m so afraid of. It doesn’t mean anything and i get angry when people can’t see past this distraction.

I don’t have a death row meal and i can’t think of ‘the best meal I’ve ever eaten’. I really don’t care about food, it’s boring and functional and sloppy but I’ve spent years imparting my morality onto something so mundane that I’ve convinced myself it means something by creating something else, something more interesting than the sum of its parts which are both mundane and horrible. I’ve made something pointless out of something essential. The important parts equal the sum of nothing and are rendered pointless through my obsession.

This revelation has freed up a lot mental space. In going cold turkey and giving myself permission to not blow things out of proportion I’ve been confronted with so much space, so much time. There seem to be so many more hours in the day when I’m not obsessing over numbers and it’s daunting, I can’t use the nutritional microcosm to play out my existential macrocosm. I have been reluctant to let this go, its stupid and annoying but it’s familiar and comforting.

It was something to obsess about when nothing else seemed interesting enough and a way to distract from anything actually meaningful and important and it’s disconcerting to realise it was all a lie.

I’m ready to admit a cake is just a cake