6:48 -8:25 PM; January 26, 2020

Store Bought Red Velvet Cake

Call me a basic bitch, but red velvet cake was always my favourite type of cake. Chocolate cake is okay. Vanilla is alright. Lemon is pretty excellent, but red velvet cake is the best. The cream cheese frosting is exquisite. The cake itself— delicious. So satisfying, without weighing you down.

I hate store-bought red velvet cake.

Safeway red velvet cake is fine. Really, it's just fine. I really like it, even if I never buy it anymore.

It's other store-bought cake that I have a problem with.

You know that really shitty sugar frosting that they put on cupcakes, that manages to be delicious and still garbage at the same time? That's where the problem begins.

'Now, IKnowItsOver,' you must be saying. 'Why are you such a little bitch about cake? It's fucking cake. Shut the fuck up.' (You might not be saying this; I'm just really prone to thinking about myself in a verbally abusive manner.)

I can explain. Really, I can. So let's go back a bit first. I'll illuminate why I like red velvet cake and why I despise store-bought red velvet cake, even though I've only ever had homemade red velvet cake once.


My eighth birthday. Or something. It doesn't really matter, okay? All you need to know is that I was less than ten.

I was just approaching that age where you can finally start deciding on the important things, like what cake you want for your birthday and all that. My mother made me a red-and-blue velvet cake— a combo! And it was delicious. I don't remember what the actual cake looked like, other than that the blue velvet was on top and the red velvet was on the bottom. That was when I decided that my favorite cake was red velvet. I don't think eight year olds tend to have much more capacity for thought. If they do, I certainly don't remember, so we'll leave it here. No need to spoil memories with what I think probably happened.


A good few years since the bliss of a certain eight year old's birthday party.

I'm in Malaysia with my parents. I don't really like them as much as I used to; certainly not as much as I did when I was an eight year old.

We're in an Indian restaurant. My mother is asking all these questions to the waiter, over and over again. It's all the same shit. I can't speak, and even if I could I wouldn't have much to say.

I glance apologetically at the waiter. My mother's tsunami of questions over, the waiter turns to me and asks what I want.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

I try to speak. Nothing comes out.

"Did you look at the menu?" My mother asks. She slides the menu across the table.

My throat constricts further. Now, I just look like a fucking idiot. That's fine; I guess I am one, if I can't even do something as simple as order a drink.

I order a drink. Finally. I'm afraid I don't quite remember what it was, but I'll describe the little I do remember, I guess: It was green, and while I'm sure others found it delicious it did not exactly match my tastes.

My mother reaches across to grab my hand. I withdraw. I really, really don't like being touched, especially not when I'm still shaken up.

After the waiter leaves, my mother goes, "Stop being such a bitch."

I stare.

"Don't give me that look. You know what you did."

No, I don't know.

"What? What did she do?" My father asks. He's laughing. The situation isn't very serious.

"She fucking smacked my hand away, like this." My mother imitates me. Her hand goes high into the air before landing at her side.

I still don't understand what this was about. I don't move like that; I tend to wish to take as little energy as possible, and draw as little attention to myself as possible. "You've been like this this whole vacation. It needs to stop."

I wonder why my mother yells at me so much. "Wipe your eyes. Goddamnit." It's a rather disturbing reoccurrence.

Perhaps the most relevant part of this story is the context. For reference, Malaysia has about a million convenience stores. I'm serious; there are tons of them everywhere you go. They call them things like 'FamilyMart', or they'll simply be labeled convenience.

We had three convenience stores on the same block as our hotel. One of these stores sold ice cream and red velvet cake.

Okay, so here's where the cupcake-frosting bullshit comes in. These were amazing cakes, according to my parents. I never formed an opinion on them, as I only had a single bite of one. We bought them everyday, and I wanted to have one, but I never did.

I always took longer to get to whatever I picked out, and my parents were bored. They'd always ask if they could have mine, and I would say yes. I thought that maybe if I did, they'd forgive me for being such a little shit.

And they were still mad at me for the entirety of the trip.


Even now, I don't eat red velvet cake. The Malaysian cake had bullshit frosting on it, and it tasted store-bought because it was.

I haven't had home-made red velvet cake since I was eight. I don't get store-bought much either, even if Safeway cake tastes that much more forgiving than Malaysian FamilyMart cake.

I hate this type of writing, this, 'let me explain' type of writing. Usually I'd try to be more of something, anything. Still, I think I might've needed this. Regardless, a review would be awesome. Have a good day.