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“Listen here,” I tell it, brandishing my spatula like a weapon. “I’ve dealt with worse than you. Remember the Great Fruit Cake Disaster of 2024? Yeah, that’s what I thought.” The mixture remains stubbornly silent. Defiant.
I have a wedding cake due at two p.m. that’s currently declaring war on my kitchen.
I’ve accidentally contacted a hitman. I’m going to end up on a true crime podcast.
Have you learned nothing from every true-crime show ever? This is literally how women end up as cautionary tales.
“You should do that with no shirt on next time. For aesthetic purposes.”

