Spare me a cupcake next time, okay? I see you, every single week, pouring the batter, mixing a mess. Flour flies, and vanilla typically drips from the counter. Once I even ended up with an egg on my head. (You really should practice that egg-cracking thing a bit more.)

But, honestly, even if it's look and don't touch, the least I can do is try to help with the cleanup, yet you scold me every time. I'm still not entirely sure why. Typically, when I commence cleaning up, you look down at me, shake your finger and start to shake vigorously.

I sometimes worry that your mother should call an ambulance.

Regardless, something always shifts, right in the middle of my confusion. I'm never quite sure what I've done wrong in the first place. This last time, you wiped the confectioners sugar from my nose, as I was just feasting a moment ago, picked me up and cooed in my face. Your ways make no sense.

I would rather have had a cupcake.

The bowl of batter was right there, and I squirmed, hoping to leap the seventeen inches--yes, it's always seventeen inches--onto the counter. Right before I could make my move, you plopped me back down, though now my sugary meal had mysteriously disappeared--I suspect you house minions--and began to pour the batter into the cups.

I saw you dip your finger into the bowl, and perhaps if I had tugged at your foot, hoping, praying... No, your mouth was too eager, a worthy opponent.

I retreated. There was no hope this time. I pouted in the other room, teased by the scent of baked goods. It's always so unfair. You call me a mop, so why can I not at least clean up after you?

I heard the timer ring and immediately began to yap incessantly. What if you had decided to give me a cupcake this time? I certainly did not want burnt cupcake. That would be simply unacceptable. Maybe...

I glanced toward the counter, hopefully not seeming too interested, and waited for my long awaited gift. I saw you slender hands delicately removing each cake, and my tail began to shake back and forth with excitement.

After the twelve were removed, you looked around, probably to make sure your minions weren't watching, and unwrapped the steaming chocolate creation.

You looked down at me, smiling with joy and--was it?

Generosity?

You took a small nibble and suddenly gasped with delight. Dejected, I left the kitchen. I was defeated. All I wanted was a cupcake.