Some place with real food. Not where I can sit pretty and pretend to eat…but some place I can really eat. Some place with basmati rice or ground chick peas or malai kofta.
Buy me a tasty dessert (because you know I love food and wholesome sweets and by extension, you.)
Something with lots of whole fruit in it…not that (poisonous!) fruit compote garbage, but real fruit, you know? And custard and chocolate and honey. Waffles, please and thank you. Pistachios, maybe. Baklava, as a matter of fact.
Don’t talk to me about getting fat, because you know I run.
And don’t talk to me about commercialism and holidays and conspiracies, because you know I know all that already.
Just let me be shallow today and have an excuse to expect goddess treatment (and of course, good food. Because you also know any excuse is a good enough excuse to go out to eat, right?).
And you, take any excuse to unabashedly adore me. Forgive me for being a fatty, just for today.
Because you love me.
Pretend not to listen when I call my dad and tell him sappy daughter things, including Happy Valentine’s Day.
Pretend you don’t know I’m that sweet.
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