Cakes at Catlett Dining Hall Reportedly Only Wet Because They’re Preparing You For My Pussy

[Mom & Dad, I know you both insist on reading all of my articles, but please don’t read this one. Feel free to peruse the rest of the Doily Allergen’s catalog.]

Have you ever found yourself perusing the dessert options at the Catlett Dining Hall and finding a scrumptious-looking cake, only to take a few bites and realize that the middle is extremely moist? This goes for every single one of their flavors: coconut cream, red velvet, double chocolate, funfetti: it’s all moist. It’s not even moist in a way that feels satisfying or consistent given the texture; it feels strangely akin to eating a soggy tissue. We’ve all experienced this, right? Well, what if I told you there’s a reason behind all this madness? There’s a deeper meaning behind this baking blunder, believe it or not. And, as I’ve learned, part of it is my fault. Whoops.

Okay, just so you’re all aware, it was not my intention for this to happen. I’m not the one baking cakes at Catlett, but this whole mess was started because of my cake. Specifically, how my cake attracted the attention of an individual who, upon request, has opted not to be mentioned by name in this article. So, this person—who henceforth will be referred to as “The Baker”— came up to me one day in the Catlett Dining Hall while I was in the process of filling my third plate of nothing but pretzel bites. The Baker walked up behind me in their UI-designated black shirt and visor and complimented my splendiferous cheeks. Normally, I’d be put off by such crude behavior, but upon seeing the dump truck that the Baker was hauling, I gave them a chance and agreed to a date. They were very, very dull, but since that ass was so fat, I lived with them for three months.

Eventually, I decided that I deserved better, so I called things off while they were giving sloppy head. I moved out that night. To say that they didn’t take the break-up well would be an understatement. They refused to wipe down the table that I always sat at for lunch, so for the next month I had to eat around a miscellaneous ketchup stain. The overhead music changed from its usual mix of reggae and indie pop to a 24-hour loop of “Baby Come Back” by 70s rock group Player. The pepperonis on the meat-lovers pizza spelled out “I’m Sorry” for three days straight. After giving up all hope of winning me back, they resorted to sabotage and attacked what I hold most dearly: cake.

Last Tuesday, as I was consuming my regular three o’clock breakfast, I took a bite of chocolate cake and came to a horrifying realization. There was something eerily familiar about the slimy texture of the cake, and with a jolt, I realized what I’d been reminded of. There was only one other thing in the world as wet as this Catlett cake, and it was my pussy. Who could’ve done this? I wondered to myself. Who would have access to this information? Then, with a shudder, I looked over my shoulder and saw the Baker staring at me. They grinned and started laughing maniacally. How could they?! My pussy is a gift that only a select few should know the secret of! Now everyone in Catlett would know how gushy my bussy was! I ran away from the dining hall in shame, staining my seat cushion in my stead.

Now you all know the awful truth. I’m mortified that I must reveal it in such a way, but my hope is that you all will take this fact in earnest and do with it what you will. If you’re the Baker and you’re reading this, just know that I will never forgive you and you still need to return my favorite Squishmallow. If I’ve managed to spark anyone else’s interest with this information, however, then hit me up @BigClitJefferson234 ♥️