cloying

Imagine a diet of nothing but wedding cake. Knuckle-deep buttercream on cake two times too sweet. A wedding is an event like a trip to Paris, rather rare, and sometimes you skip the cake, admit it. Not an option when you live here. Your eyes are force-fed all that confectionery, you feel like those French geese. Even my ceilings have frosting. Just the occasional bran muffin is all I’m saying. Flat surfaces the color of sand every once in a while, to rest my eyes.

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