I don’t think I’ll ever forget this story.
When we were in senior year, my college friends and I just loved staying at my friend Ayn’s place. The house is along Banawe St. in Quezon City and it was our favorite place to just chill-out, study, work on our group projects, shoot films, and just kill time. We always went there in a group.
image courtesy of Lis Parsons of www.dailymail.co.uk
Why that place? Because it’s so big with seven rooms, far from buzzkill neighbors, the design is ideal for parties, and the best of all, NO PARENTS. Ayn lives with only her sister, who is the type who asks you, “Hey, when is your next party here? I have some spare beer in the fridge.” That’s the kind of sister you wanna have.
Anyway, one time, Ayn was telling us the WHOLE DAY about the cake she had at home. Being someone who is allergic to anything (or anyone) sweet, Ayn offered, “Guys, we have tiramisu at home. You might want to come over and have some. It’s just me and the maid at home these days and we can’t possibly devour it all.“
As much as we’d love to make love with her tiramisu, her house was just too far from the university. It’s a nice place to party but you won’t really drive or commute all the way to that other end of the city just to have cake, when there’s a bakeshop in Philcoa. Besides, it was thesis season. Everyone was a worker bee.
So no one really went over to Ayn’s place and touched that tiramisu. Poor cake.
A week passed and while all of us were killing time, thinking of something to do, somebody teased Ayn that maybe she had another tiramisu cake that she would love to share since we were not busy anymore.
“Funny you mentioned it,” Ayn said. “It was just so weird. A few days ago, I was gonna have tiramisu so I opened the ref but was shocked to find there was none of it left. So I asked Ate Tessie. I asked her where the cake was. She said that one of my friends ate it.“
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