The Last Supper

Last night I had the great privilege of attending a very decadent party in one of those fancy-schmancy high-rise apartments with an elevator and balconies full of flowers.

And I was one of two people invited to arrive early for a private dinner with the hostess so I chose my clothes carefully, let my hair down to fall into soft waves, and upon my feet, a pair of silver heels. I was aglow inside and out, and ready for my big night out.

Ahem.

Ok. So, it was a candle party, and it was all women, at my girlfriend’s apartment, but I was invited to attend a private feast beforehand. I was one of two VIP’s for the evening and the only thing missing was my tiara and body guards. And their was decadence I tell you. Homemade apple cake and peanut butter and chocolate cheesecake. Cheesecake that I ate in a Zen-like silence. The cheesecake and I became One. The Cheesecake that’ll have me running an extra 2 to 200 miles today, and I know what’s going on. I’m not stupid.


I’m like the farm animal who was befriended by the caretakers and lovingly cared for. They fattened you up and told you bedtime stories while serving you tea and tending to your every princess whim, until it’s time. Time to get carted off to the butchers. And the caretakers grin as they’re sharpening their knives, knowing it was a job well-done as they try to contain their lust of what’s to come.

(Am I really suggesting that my girlfriend would fatten me up only to have me carted off to the butchers so she can use me in a winter stew done in a slow cooker?)

Stay Tuned for Part 2 - tomorrow