This morning, so in love with its sweet taste and unique texture, as well as being dangerously hung over, I asked a piece of tiramisu to marry me. I was having a love affair in my mouth all the way down to my belly with this beautiful thing, and I wanted to make it official in the eyes of God and George Washington and George Burns. I wanted to make it legit.

Being a piece of cake, the tiramisu couldn't respond. I illogically took it as a "no," however, and found my morning getting very sad. Then, with a cup of coffee backing me up, I finished eating the tiramisu without another word. It was so delicious. Left over from an office party last night, you wouldn't know the tiramisu wasn't fresh. Now, my belly full and nipples hard (happens when I eat a lot of sweets... no idea), I wonder if I'd rushed into asking the tiramisu's frosting in marriage. I hardly knew this piece of cake, and here I was ready to get hitched. In the end, it's probably best that I ate it.

My tummy hurts now, though. Hell hath no fury like a piece of tiramisu scorned.