by Keelu

Do I really need a man to make me happy? Are there any special criteria for falling in love with Mr. Right? Do I really need to sit down and plan out who I fall in love with? Or will it just happen? Did it just happen?

I like to cook. The ability to cook is important. Did you know blueberries are a primary source of antioxidants that combat the effects of free radicals that ravage your skin and cause you to look older than you actually are? I incorporate blueberries into every meal because people tell me I look older than I actually am. You can't reverse the aging process but you can slow it down.

I have a gut feeling I will be famous for my cooking. I know a celebrity will recognize my culinary skills and hire me as their personal chef and nutritionist. That's why tonight I am going to the Viper Room to meet Johnny Dep. He's in town and I want to give him the last slice of my blueberry pie.

It's the last slice because I was mad at Nick. It started when I called to invite him over to try my fresh baked blueberry pie that was cooling on the window sill. Nick kept talking a mile a minute, so I sampled a piece just to see if the world was ready for its debut. Barely a sliver. Heaven on Earth. How I wanted to share it with Nick! In the time he wasted telling me about his day, I summoned the confidence to invite him over. But something happened. The more Nick talked the more I realized I didn't want him in my house. I didn't want someone like Nick to know the taste of heaven. I didn't want him to benefit from the antioxidant enrichment of my cooking. If he wanted pink healthy tissues, he was on his own.

But I needed him to ask me, "What's it like? Is it really heaven on earth?" I needed him to want me. To want me to slow his aging process. But he kept talking so before I knew it, there was only one slice left. I had to make a decision. Eat the last piece or forget about Nick.

I know you're supposed to weigh the pros and cons in a relationship. Weigh as in scale...pounds...fat... Weighing the relationship with Nick made me feel fat. There was twice the amount of butter in that pie because of Nick. The smell of baking is therapeutic. Nick needs therapy. That's why he can't stop talking. Therapy would teach him how to listen. This pie could've changed everything.

Nick lost his chance of enriching his antioxidant levels by refusing to listen. I just switched to speakerphone and ate blueberry pie until I was down to the last piece. I wanted him to stop me, to tell me he needed that last slice, like life itself. A slice of pie. From me. But he didn't. So I hung up on him then took the phone off the hook.

I made an important decision; I grew a little as a person. Tonight, Johnny Dep will get the last piece of my blueberry pie. He knows what it means. He knows the significance of a slice of pie.

And as that last piece slips past the beautiful teeth and graces the taste buds of Johnny Dep, I will imagine the jealous look on Nick's bewildered face. But there's no time for Nick. Johnny and I are too busy discussing his delightful dietary needs and my generous chef's salary.