Andrew vs Lindsey Hunter

At my last open high-top, a black guy sits himself without the help of a hostess. He's casually dressed in a white t-shirt, jeans, and loosely laced sneakers.

Busy with dirty plates under both arms, I drop a menu in front of him, and tell him I’ll be right back. He’s too busy texting to reply.

Knowing the odds, I groan. It’s been ten percent or less for most of the day, and this one isn’t looking good either. But hey, do a great job, maybe things will turn out well this time.

On many separate occasions, every manager here has taken me aside and told me I get lots of compliments from guests. That they’re proud of me, and that I do great work. It’s a shame I can’t turn compliments into money somehow.

When I return to black guy, he tells me he's waiting on 'his girl' and when she arrives, pretty and blonde, we begin.

Before I can say my name, he asks for an orange juice, and she wants water. I retrieve both and place them on the table. They chit chat to each other, ignoring me for about ten minutes.

Ten minutes is a long time when waiting tables. I’ve done everything else I can, and approach them once more.

Blondie says she hasn’t really looked at the menu yet, and doesn’t want to ‘have to read it.’

She's intimidated by the novel-sized menu, asking me to surprise her with 'something healthy with chicken.'

"Refer to chapter fourteen, verse twelve for salad options" I advise. She laughs politely.

He stares at his phone.

“How about this Skinnylicious Asian Chicken Salad,” I suggest, pointing at it with my pen.

“Okay sounds good,” she smiles a perfect smile.

“And what can I do for you, sir?”

He’s still texting, until she nudges him.

“Oh, uh. I want the French toast and uh one those okay you know them ayggs with like cheese and can you do some chicken in it but scrambled not too much but with some chicken in it. But make it spicy, you know like Mexican chicken. And cheese. Do it um, okay there’s a guy who works here that know what I mean he’s got black hair you know that guy?”

When you’re faced with something this irritating, don’t ask questions. Don’t offer options, or tell him all the kinds of cheeses we have or types of chicken we can add, just keep it simple and move on.

“How many eggs?” I ask.

“Uh, juss a couple ayggs.”

I translate his order to a quickly-jotted note.

I repeat the order back to them, to confirm.

“Okay, for you Miss, a Skinnylicious Asian Chicken Salad.”

She nods, with that smile again.

“And for you sir, two eggs scrambled with chorizo chicken and cheddar cheese mixed in. And Brulee French Toast. Does that work?”

The air hangs for a moment.

“Uh. Yeh,” he tells his phone.

“Good job,” she whispers to me, behind her hand. That was nice. Perhaps she’s a bartender somewhere, understands where I’m coming from, and will save the day with a good tip.

I leave them, and ring it all in, thinking I’ve seen this black guy before. He definitely looks familiar. And the woman he’s with is a little too pretty for him. He’s a bit over six feet tall, but doesn’t appear particularly wealthy or interesting.

Their order eventually gets run to their table. They’re both happy with things.

As they talk further, he never asks for anything else, but she asks for coffee and cream. Only one refill over the course of an hour.

The Lakers are playing overhead, and he watches the game with an odd sadness. Some gentlemen at the bar banter about how lousy the Suns are this year.

She’s attracting onlookers, but he isn’t. And yet still, I feel like I’ve seen him before. On television somewhere, possibly. The worst case would be to say he looks like the coach of the Suns, just to be mistaken, and have it sound like a  ‘all you blacks look the same’ type comment.

She finishes long before he does. I’ve cleared everything except for his custom eggs- that he’s nibbling on at a snail’s pace.

A coworker, Victoria, tells me the blonde is a bartender that comes in rather often, and she tips well. I hope she’s the one that pays the bill.

“May I take care of that plate, sir?”

He nods, and I take his empty egg plate. They both decline the dessert menu, so I place the bill on the table and suggest they take their time with it. Their total is about $35.

After a few moments, I return and take the booklet.

Now alone at one of the computers, I open the booklet. There’s a very normal looking card inside.

“Lindsey Hunter      Phoenix Suns”

No shit. The coach of the Phoenix Suns. It’s him.

I look across the room. He’s sitting in the middle of a crowded bar. Not a single person here knows who he is. That’s how lousy the Suns are. That’s how little this town cares about him and his team.

Receipt printed, and pen placed inside, I return the booklet to him.

He tenses up, as our eyes meet. Will I ask him for a photograph? Will I break his cover?

“I thought you looked familiar,” I keep my voice low.

He’s frozen. Will I berate him? Will I ask him for an annoying autograph?

“Better luck next season, you’re a hard working guy. See you later,” I smile a real one.

He breathes a sigh of relief, smiles back, and takes the bill.

“Thank you very much,” he says. More for keeping things discreet and friendly, rather than for the service.

From afar I watch him ponder over the tip. He begins to write something in, but she scolds him, watching the pen like a hawk. He recoils, and makes a generous correction.

Blondie came through!

Suns Coach Lindsey Hunter was going to tip like crap until his date made him give me $15 on a $35 bill. J

There are still creatures here.

It’s night time, but still early.
I’ve parked the truck after a trip to Los Betos, eager to tear into two pounds of chicken nachos supreme.

Locking the truck, I start through the parking lot and notice unusual movement to my left.

So I stop and look. Not twenty yards away, along the sidewalk moving in silence, is a furry creature.

The overhead streetlight etches its shape in a stark contrast.

It’s too big to be a cat. Lumbering too heavily, not feline at all. It’s not a dog, its movement is too deliberate to be anything remotely domesticated. I’ve seen javelina before, this isn’t one of them. This thing has a long banded tail, drooping low. It's stronger looking than a coyote or jackal, and doesn't have a skip to its step like they do. 

In the small town of La Porte, I once walked alongside a family of possums. This was more like a possum, but didn’t waddle as they did.

I need to know what this thing is. So I take a few quiet steps across the pavement and onto the thick, winter lawn. It’s cool and forgiving under my feet, making no sound. The creature still hasn’t noticed me.

I wish instead of this bag of nachos, I had a National Geographic accent and a camera.

I follow it slowly, crouched, getting closer. It’s stopped at the base of a tree, the only object that looks familiar to it, I figure.

This is a wild animal. No one owns this thing. It hasn’t run away from somewhere, no one’s looking for it, or given it a name and collar. It’s just out here adapting and surviving.

A breeze comes from behind me, making the plastic bag flap a bit. I cringe at the sound. The creature hears it, and stares right at me. My cover is blown, so I remain still.

Its face, I recognize it now. A black mask, like war paint over its eyes. This is a raccoon. But far larger than any raccoon I’d seen on TV. If raccoons had professional wrestling, he would be their Hulk Hogan.

Its eyes were unblinking, alert but not afraid. Only a glint of light revealed their aim at me.

Neither of us move, just watching each other. The city sounds of cars and bustle seem far away now, a nuisance neither the raccoon nor I want around.

There’s something unreal about this encounter. It makes my regular life seem ugly, robotic and empty. This creature has no set schedule. No bills, no anxiety, no depression, nothing to envy, no one to impress.

It’s doing so well despite a million reasons to be afraid. If our situations were switched, and I was stuck in his normal environment, I would die within mere days. I’d wither and fail, worthless and soft.

This raccoon is better at life than I am.

I take a cautious step forward, it matches with a hand on the tree. I say ‘hand’ because I was close enough to observe what looked more like fingers than paws, even in the dark.

By now, this raccoon, however he’d manage to survive in this city, had seen his share of humans and avoided them successfully. I’ve never seen something like him, though. I wanted to help him, or pet him or something. Stupid city boy.

I knelt down, opened the nachos and took a handful out of the box. The crackle of the bag sent him a few feet up the tree trunk.

I tossed the handful towards him, at the base of the tree. If I threw a little harder, I could have hit him. His eyes remained on me, unwavering, pondering and weighing threat levels.

I take several steps backward, improving his odds.

He smells the nachos with a twitch of his nose, eyes flicker to them, then back at me. He moves down the trunk in a way that the streetlight fully illuminates him. His hair is wild and coarse, like armor scraped after many battles. This is the king of all raccoons. 

I take a few more steps back. He’s at the base of the tree again, shoulders square with mine. He’s going to eat them! I’m so happy about that.

“COME SWEETIE, COME ON.” 

Our moment shatters. Monster raccoon flies up the tree, hidden under the leaves now except for the tip of his tail. He doesn’t trust me, or my nachos, anymore.

Some girl has revealed herself, about to go on a walk with her purse dog on the other end of the parking lot. I pick up my bag and move away in the dark, as the girl and her dog come onto the lawn.

Because of her blaring headphones, she is completely unaware of me.

Her purse dog’s collar has a little bell on it that jingles. The dog and the girl move without any of the cautious calculation that the ‘wild’ raccoon had. Doggy has discovered the handful of nachos, he eats it, while being scolded “Ohmygod ew what are you doing! No!”

I look back to the tree, she has no idea a giant raccoon is just above her head, either.

Raccoon and I have something in common there, for a moment.

I see the tip of its hairy tail flick, then retract into the unseen.

Scottsdale Lady Meltdown

I had just put in a solid six hours at Grand Lux Cafe. Dinner was going to be slow, so I was relieved of my night shift double. Good thing, because my knees were starting to ache.

So I walk through Z Tejas and Kona Grill’s patio area, and continue towards the parking garage.

Ahead of me are three Scottsdale women. There are two blondes, and a woman that looks like Annette Bening from American Beauty in the middle.

I’ve unbuttoned my collar and wrists, apron under my arm; I can’t wait for a nap. I follow the women up two flights of stairs, hearing their clacking heels, as breezes bring their powerful perfume.

I move faster than them, and have caught up so I’m about ten feet behind. My truck is in view.

A large Toyota FJ Cruiser, propped up on giant wheels with limo tint, backs out very slowly in front of the women. He’s stuck between two parked Escalades, and can’t see a thing.

“Um, hello! There are people here!” Annette shouts.

Not hearing her, the FJ driver continues to inch out of his spot. The women aren’t in any danger. The two blondes seem to think Annette is just joking.

“Stop! WHAT are you doing?!” Her voice cracked. Something terrible is about to burst through.

The blondes stand still, watching. Annette has placed herself right behind the FJ Cruiser. She’s banging on the back window now, I can hear her diamond rings scratching up the paint and glass, “This is the ugliest car I’ve ever seen! What the hell is wrong with you!”

I’ve set my apron down by my feet and have lit a cigarette, observing.

“This is the UGLIEST FUCKING STUPID SHIT CAR on Earth!”

I hear a power window roll down, and a calm voice comes from it, “Oh, excuse me ma’am. I didn’t see you there.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say.

“Fuck you 'you didn’t see' me?! I hate you! I hate you!” The last sentence gurgled through clenched teeth.

Annette starts swinging her Prada purse like a wild woman, hitting the window over and over. The Cruiser was built for mountains, floods, fires and bullets, but I wince each time her purse smacks the rear window.

Her lipstick, eyeliner, tampons and cell phone have sprayed out all around her on the pavement. The Cruiser’s reverse lights shut off. He’s just sitting there parked now, halfway out of the space.

Annette’s screaming about him leaving her, and she hates him, she hates him, she hates him. That stupid whore too, she hates her too.

A pocket mirror lands in front of me, I pick it up. While she continues to swing at the Cruiser, I quietly start collecting her purse’s contents, hoping to save her some further embarrassment.

The two blondes have since acted like they don’t know her, and have gotten into their car and driven away.

The Cruiser driver resorts to backing out again, rolling up his window for safety. Annette moves aside, and is tiring herself out with a few more swings at the passenger door.

Her screams have deep breaths in between them now, her hair is a mess. Somehow she broke a heel, too.

The Cruiser, with just enough room to leave, does so in a hurry. With one last “Fuck you!” Annette crumples to the floor, grabbing her face and crying deep, shuddering sobs.

My truck is just passed her. I could just go. Leave her here. Blend in.

The cigarette dwindles in my mouth as I approach her, carefully selecting a tone of voice. The one you use with a child throwing a tantrum, or someone holding a shaky gun.

“I got your stuff.”

She glances up at me from behind her hands, then covers her face again. Now she’s embarrassed.

“Oh…God I’m… Oh God…”

“It’s all right.”

“Do you think I could...” she looks at my mouth.

“Sure, here you go.” I hand her a Camel and light it for her, then sit beside her in the parking space.

“Thanks,” she says, taking a drag like she hasn’t in years, but remembers it well.

“Rough couple days?”

She rubs her wedding ring, unsure of its meaning anymore. 

“Try a rough couple years,” her voice is still a bit shaky. She wipes her eyes and gives a sad chuckle at herself.

“It’s okay. You should probably never wear those shoes again, though,” I nod to her feet.

She laughs, “Oh geez, he’s turning me into one of those crazy girls.”

“I hope not, we already have plenty of those,” I smile at her, “Do you need a ride or anything?”

“No, the Benz is… right over there somewhere,” she waves her hand in a general direction, fixing her hair with the other.

She’s stood herself up, wiping dust off her skirt, “I just… I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“I’d start with a nice bath, glass of wine, light a few candles maybe. Just relax, you know?”

“Good idea, a really good idea,” she says, taking another drag.

“Okay well, I’m gonna go home. You sure you’re all right?”

“Yes, thank you young man.”

Sometimes they just have to let it out. Other than how she’s holding her shoes in her hands, you’d have no idea she just went murder rage on a stranger.

In my truck now, I start backing out, she waits for me.

“Whoa, careful there. This one’s pretty ugly too!” I holler at her.

She laughs, covering her face.

Andrew Goes on Another Date

POF is usually a waste of time. Yes, there are Plenty of Fish in the sea. But there are also poisonous jellyfish, sharks, eels, ugly things, salt, tidal waves, and death. Case in point, occasionally logging into the free account usually reveals a series of tragedies.

There’s a message in my Inbox, I ready myself for something horrific, but am instantly surprised upon a few clicks. It seems this time I’ve caught a beautiful marlin.

This girl is gorgeous. Her name is Diane. She’s 23, it says. A 1^st grade teacher, so she likes kids. She’s got a great smile in her little black dress. From a large family. Dark hair, even darker eyes, and a shapely, healthy yoga body. No cats. A nonsmoker. Classy, but sexy. She even writes in complete sentences.

So I respond to her, with brevity. Friendly, but all business. Within minutes I have her number, and she wants to meet me at a bar near her house in Tempe.

I couldn’t believe how easy that part was. I was so excited, reinvigorated even.

After work, I open my phone and see that Diane texted me “See you there at 10!”

She remembered me! She really wants to see me!

I get to the bar twelve minutes early. I want to get at least a drink in me beforehand. I’ll need the social lubricant, especially because I need this date to count.

I finish my first long island and check my watch. It’s ten o’clock.

10:05 rolls around, and I imagine myself reliving that scene from Dumb and Dumber. I order a second drink. What if she never shows up? A part of me would be relieved, for some reason.

At 10:07, the door opens. It’s her. And there isn’t much left to the imagination.

In the picture, Diane’s hair was tied back neatly in a studious bun. This time, it’s long, dark and flowing. She has strikingly smooth, fair skin. I noticed this, because she wasn’t dressed like a teacher would be. Not even close.

Diane’s in tiny jean shorts (so the pockets stick out the bottom) and like half a top with her glorious boobs pushed up. There’s some kind of bracelet and ring accessories going on, but I’m too intimidated to look any longer.

I stare at my drink, as she sits next to me. She smells like vanilla and fruit mixed together.

“There you are, Andrew,” there’s a smile in her voice. I turn to her, and watch my body operate in its charismatic charade. It says hi to her, tells her she looks great. She giggles, like a ray of sunshine bouncing in her stool.

“You look better than your picture,” she says, clearly relieved about it.

As the minutes pass, and the booze tingles through me, I start to realize she’s just a person. I can talk to people. She’s just one of them. My funnyguy shell is doing great, I let him handle it.

It’s going well, she’s laughing real laughs. At one point, she kissed my cheek in between sips of her cosmo.

I check my watch, it’s 11:30.

“I wish I had a teacher that looked like you in 1^st grade,” my mouth says.

“Oh… I’m not a teacher,” she says to her cosmo.

What.

“Are you still in school for it?”

“Nah.”

“I’m sorry, your profile sa-”

“No one means that stuff.”

“They don’t?”

“No one reads it, either.”

“I do?”

“That’s stupid.”

So I sat for a bit, sounds of sports and clamoring drinkers around us. I wonder how far her profile’s inaccuracies went.

“So what do you actually do?”

“I’m a dancer.”

“A dancer. Like the kind that uh… make lots of money?”

“The exotic kind, yes,” she smiles from her lips, but not from her eyes.

The internal conflict of excited weiner versus disappointed brain waged inside of me. I could feel my shell faltering.

Diane’s finished her drink, and is concentrating on her smartphone. I take the moment to observe her. Some of her hair has fallen across her pretty face. While looking at her phone, a shade came over her eyes, and for a second they looked much older. I really don’t know a thing about this girl, I realize.

She taps something on her phone, and is putting it back in her purse, and says

“So you gonna fuck me or what.” 

So flatly, I wasn’t sure if she actually said it.

“What?”

She’s got her purse over her shoulder, ready to leave, “Uh yeah, so we gonna fuck?”

The last word flicked out of her face again, so casually, so routinely, so empty of any emotional investment. This was happening, this was real. This was what I thought I always wanted.

But why don’t I?

Wait, I do. Don’t I? Am I finally lucking out?

 I should. No, don’t. Should I? Is this a trap?

My charismatic robot body was failing. It was just me now, showing through. Nervous and lost.

She must have sensed my hesitation. I could feel the window closing rapidly. She didn’t move away, but the distance between us tripled.

“You don’t want to?” she asked, slightly confused.

“Yeah, I mean yeah I do. I just. Well usually I have to court her for a while first. Get her to like me, or something y-”

She puts a hand on mine, patting it, “Don’t worry. I don’t like you. I don’t even know you.”

“Well isn’t that. I mean why, I don’t, uh.”

She stands up from her stool, placing a crisp fifty on the counter.

“I’m gonna go. Forget it,” her voice fell flat again. I was already worthless to her.

The bartender, who was in earshot of the whole thing, watches her rear as it swaggers out the door.
There’s a pause, I’m staring at my hands, and I feel him lean in towards me.

“Wow. You blew it man... Holy shit.”

My hands clench and unclench. The room is much dimmer now.

“Can I just get another long island, please.”

“Sure, man...” he looks again at the empty doorway, breathing in the last of her scent, “Damn.”

I watch him chuckle to himself, shaking his head, as he makes my drink.

This long island tastes much stronger than the last. He must be thinking he’s doing me a favor. I sit alone, watching a few replayed innings of a baseball game I don’t care about, hate myself, then leave.

A Second Look at Ugly Cakes

Now I’m a realist, so I partially expected Ugly Cakes’ last order of snickerdoodles (previously reviewed) to be an overly delicious fluke. Anybody can make a one-hit-wonder, the hard part is maintaining that level of accomplishment consistently. And now that they've set the bar so high, I'm willing to be slightly disappointed this time around.

So to celebrate my recent healthy weight loss, figured I’d order another dozen snickerdoodles. Because, you know, I’m worth it and I deserve nice things.

A quick message left on Ugly Cakes’ Facebook resulted in a quick response, having the cookies ready by the very next day.

And this time, ohh this time, they’d be brought by Cindy the Baker herself.

Ugly’s headquarters is on the opposite side of town from me, so Cindy and I met up halfway. I arrived right on time, but she was already there early. Like a professional.

Cindy the Baker is a modest woman, very friendly, even slipped in a colloquial “Dude” when she spoke to me. I’m not sure if she’s actually this hip, or she’s just very good at speaking to me in words I can understand. Cindy explained that the recipe was still the same, but a slight adjustment had been made. I can’t reveal this adjustment. Just know that it’s absolutely diabolically genius.

I have to insist upon giving her some extra money for driving closer to me, she accepts it graciously.

We say our goodbyes, but it turns out we’re both parked in the same area. Walking in the same direction, she keeps chatting away with me, and I try to respond, but I’m too entranced by the idea of me and these new snickerdoodles being alone together.

It was the longest drive back home in recent memory. Every red light seemed deliberately insulting.

Now in my room with the door and blinds closed, I look over the package.

Some changes have been made here. The small easily-torn paper bag has been replaced with a hefty tote. Instead of three groups of six cookies wrapped together in sticky paper, they’ve all been placed evenly in a single covered tray. This method is slightly more costly, but a welcome improvement from my perspective.

The same adorable graphic design is present, with a handwritten “Thank You & Enjoy!” on the business card for that personal touch.

The $19 got me 13 cookies this time, not 18. Regardless, I’m technically paying for a dozen cookies, so 13 is still a pleasant surprise. This was a reasonable choice on Ugly’s part to save on cost and maximize the profit margin- a sign that Ugly is gaining steam as a serious business.

Removing the first cookie, I notice this new batch’s babies are thinner. The same diameter across, but about half the thickness. Where the first snickerdoodles sat sinfully heavy in my hand, this new model seems to have spent the last two months at the gym. This one’s leaner, more honed and perfected.

Now the moment of truth.

Upon taking the first bite, more like a first kiss, all my doubts melt away. By the second and third bites, I’ve forgotten about bills, the war, our economy, hippies and depression.

Initially welcoming and lightly sweet, this cookie gets softer the more you get to know her. The center is moist yet firm, doughy but responsible… it’s just right.

There are few things that deliver this many smiles per dollar. And although a bit different than the first batch, these snickerdoodles have somehow figured a way to surpass my expectations all over again.

Well done, Ugly Cakes.

Andrew Gets Somewhat Even

Headed home, I stop by the usual Chevron station for some gasoline.
Walking inside to pay cash, I freeze.

It’s her again. Elisa. She’s standing there like a goddess of deception, in revealing summer garb.

She’s got her back to me, swindling another young male into tobacco-related coupons and spam. His shoulders are slumped, I remember the feeling too well.

I watch him leave her, staring at his coupon in defeat, as he walks past me out the automatic doors.

I could ignore the situation, blend in and move on like anyone else. But I don’t. It’s the principle of it all, dammit. I can’t let this go on.

“You.” I say to her, squinting.

She turns

“Uh, who me?” she stands with a model’s grace. Her disarming voice, like a perfect song.

“Elisa, is it?”

“Uh… yes?”

“I’m onto you.”

“What, what do you mean?” she twirls her beautiful hair between her fingers, smiling innocently.

“That won’t work this time. Your ruse, although clever, ends today.”

She walks up and quickly grabs my hand, pulling me into the candy bar aisle.

“Listen man, don’t blow my cover,” her voice drops.

“Oh, I think I will.”

“Come on, so I played with you a little bit, no big deal,” she whispers.

Despite how good she smells, my arms are crossed, lips curled, face stern. I’m appearing very hard to convince.

“I mean, didn’t… didn’t you get some sweet coupons in the mail afterward?”

“Yeah, for Camel SNUS. That’s like a coupon for a kick in the balls.”

She stammers, so I turn away from her, inhaling a bunch of air then “HEY EVERY-“

“-Shh! Quiet!” she whispers harshly, pulling my hand again.

“What if… what if I gave you my number?”

I stroke my chin at her.

“Hmm. Go on.”

She tears off a bit of paper from her clipboard, and scribbles a number on it.

“Here, this is my cell. Just call me, okay?”

I take it. My weiner says I should leave, but I don’t listen to him.

“This is your number?”

“Y-yes.”

“And that,” I point to her cell phone sticking out from her cutoff jeans, “is your cell phone?”

“Uh, yes.”

I open up my own phone, dial the number, put it on speaker, and stare at her.

She looks back and forth, as my phone begins to ring, but hers doesn’t.

“Come on, honey. Don’t… don’t do that…” she reaches out to touch me, I step back.

“Thank you for calling the Phoenix Costco warehouse- ”  says my phone.

I close it, with an audible snap. She flinches from it.

“Oh, that’ll cost you.”

Her eyes widen in panic, as I turn away from her again towards the other customers.

“WAIT! Okay I can uh… what if I got you two bucks off a pack?”

I snicker, “Nope. I'm actually trying to quit.”

“Oh God. Okay! Okay! Just… okay here. I got something just for you.”

She reaches into her front pocket, and pulls out a single wrinkly coupon.

“This… this’ll get you any pack of Camels for fifty cents. It’s the best I can do.”

I take it from her, “Can I use this right now?”

“Well I’d rather y-”

“Don’t you move.”

I approach the counter, and sure enough, after a quick inspection of the coupon, guy sold me a pack of Camel Lights for exactly fifty cents.

I return to her, she’s fidgeting.

“Did… did it…”

“Yes, it worked. Touché, devil woman.”

She sighs, relieved, “Okay, can I just get back to work then?”

“For now, yes.”

I abandon her there in the candy aisle, pay for my gas, and leave feeling much better. :)

Ugly Cakes - Reviewing their Snickerdoodles.

By now you know I'm a jerk.
If you've ever gone out to eat with me, you REALLY know I'm a jerk.
Especially when it comes to food. I'll eat anything, but I'll whine and complain about the sauce being wrong or something most of the time. I'm a man of discerning tastes, people. A snooty, snobby Foodie.

Figured I'd review something edible. So I messaged Ugly Cakes for an order.

Two days later the sky parted, and an angel landed. I think her name was Lindi or something, doesn't matter, what matters is, she brought Snickerdoodles. Ugly Cakes is a local venture, brand new, consisting of Cindy the Baker and her daughters.

Though I've enjoyed some of Cindy's baking before, years ago, she's since taken it much more seriously. I had to know if this was for real.

I handed the angel a twenty. She took it with a gracious bow, then flew away on a unicorn leaving me and the Snickerdoodles together at last.

I held them close, looking over both shoulders, and ran up to my apartment.
With the door locked, and the blinds closed, it's just me and these cookies now.

Sure I've done well lately, losing 18 pounds by eating healthier.
But clearly, little things like being attractive and living longer mean NOTHING when I smell these cookies.
I'm so entranced by the scent, so thoroughly seduced by this bag of sin, that I nearly missed the adorable packaging. I was going to expand more on this, but I can't take it anymore. I need a Snickerdoodle in me right now.

Ripping open one of the bags, it seems Ugly has blessed me with a number of generous extras. I ordered a dozen, but got somewhere between 16 and 18. (In hindsight, I'm not certain of the original number, because I ate them too quickly to stop and think.)

Unwrapping the first Snickerdoodle, it sits heavily in my hand. It's big, it's round, it's soft. Bits of warm cinnamon and sugar smile with tiny bursts of light. The cookie seems to beat in my hand, as if it has a tiny heart that loves me.

I take a bite.
My entire body shivers. The room brightens for a moment.
There's nothing like this in a store or restaurant anywhere.
These weren't just baked. These were meticulously created... by someone who probably has superpowers.

This wasn't just eating a cookie, it was living an experience. An event everyone should have in their life at least once. Like the first time being stoned, or the first time making love.

But we're on a diet. Each one of these surely has more calories than a normal person needs.
Shut up brain, you don't know what happiness is.
But I do. I've found it. I've found happiness, and I have 14 fleeting moments of it left.

Now 13.
Now 12.
Now 11...