FudgeCake vs. The Incorrigible Fridays

Once upon a time, a man and a woman met on Valentine's Day, and as with all that happens every year on the evening of this fateful day, a boy was conceived. But the boy was born two weeks later than planned, coming to the world at the peak of the last day of November instead of the planned 14th. Thereafter, he came to be known as the Late Boy, because he was always late... At least that is what he believes.

This is post has taken two years to write. I look at the top left corner of my dashboard and it says the first time this post was 'conceived' was on 4th of January, 2019. But it is 2020, the month of November, a few days away from my late birthday, a day I barely remember as the first time I breathed perhaps 30 or so years ago because I am either asleep or watching anime or cursing the unrealistic amount of work I usually do.

Yes, this post is terribly late.

"So, who is FudgeCake exactly?" you ask. "And what does he/she/it have to do with this post?" you insist.

"Patience, my dear," I reply with a lavish swing of my arm. "We are getting there, but for you to understand who FudgeCake is, you must first understand who her creator is."

The Late Boy was born at 6 pm on the 30th day of November. For dramatic effect, let us assume it was pouring and there is a cello playing in the background. The boy's father has just arrived at the hospital, drenched like a wet mattress, his humongous spectacles dangling from the tip of his straight nose. That is one thing you notice about him: the straightness of his nose, only smudged when his smiled and his nose turned into something fat and flat. Like mine.

He arrives at the hospital, wet because he forgot his umbrella. "Take me to her," he instructs the first nurse he sees." The nurse, obviously, does not recognize him. You can see it in the quizzical look she gives, one eyebrow raised and her mouth slightly agape. "MY WIFE IS GIVING BIRTH!" my father yells- no, he bellows. My father bellows. "TAKE ME TO HER!"

There is always something commanding about his voice. It isn't loud when he speaks in his usual tone. It's usually kind, filled with joy. It is a peaceful voice, but when he yells, the power comes from a source unknown to man, knocking you right out of your mind. It is like resetting the TV by striking it, like a shock that zaps through you. And, I assume, that it how the nurse felt after the bellow blew into her mind, making her rush to the reception desk as if seeking solace by appearing to cater to my father's shocking demand.

Remember, all of this is purely fictional.

The cello strumming in the background hardens as they rush across hallways to come bumbling through a pair of doors. My mother is there, beautiful but drenched in her own sweat that gives her a strange, motherly glow. She is lying on a strange bed and screaming her heart out at the doctors and nurses that swarm about her like bees to a flower.

"Mummy," my father calls to her...

OK, this is not some kinky, sugar-mummy type of shit. The truth is I have never heard my father call my mother by her name, and neither has my mother called to him by his. They only mention each others' names when they are talking to someone else or to a congregation, through introductions of course. Otherwise, they will forever be referred to by the names that us kids call them, which is Mummy and Daddy.

So yes... "Mummy," he calls to her, rushing to her side and taking her hand in his.

"Where have you been?" Her grip on his hand is deathly.

"I was at work-"

"At work?" My mother repeats, shocked by the sheer audacity. "I am having a baby! Our third baby..."

"It's not like you haven't done this before-" my father starts but grows quiet after seeing the look my mother gives him. Pure malice fills her narrowed eyes and sweaty brow, and it slaps my father with the insurmountable pain of child labor, through which my mother is going. It is a threatening look, and I like to think it's the only one that can silence my father's bellowing. "But I am here," he quickly resolves, saving his ass perhaps until when the next child will decide to come along. "I will always be here."

And so the night melds into terror and joy and pain and even more pain as my mother's screams fill Mater Misrecorded Hospital (am I saying it right?). Finally at exactly six in the evening, my big head pops out into the world. My mother's screams subside and my father's face is filled with a grin unable to be repressed. My big head pops into this world, a head filled with adventure and excitement and stupid stubbornness... Into a world similarly filled with wonder and angst and pain. And equally so, just as I was born, FudgeCake, my imaginary friend, swirled out of nothingness and into existence.

Obviously, I was not there watching as my mother gave birth to me, I have no idea whether it was raining or not on that day, and there was definitely no elegant cello music playing in the background. But FudgeCake was as real as every idea I have ever created. She represents the sweetness I have experienced since birth: the doting parents, the fantastic siblings, the close friends... She represents all precious moments I have spent with family and friends, each new second building upon the last, each solidifying the foundation by which I would live, and in extension, the foundation by which a favorite character from my novel series would live as well.

In the Saga of the Omnists, FudgeCake is a character in a trilogy of books that Maia loves. She is chocolate-based vigilante from the terribly grey city of Weekday, who works to free her people from the oppressive regime set by the Wednesday, Tuesdays and Thursdays, in turn becoming a hero that Maia constantly looks up to. She is a reminder to never give up and to always spread sweetness and goodness even in the darkest of moments, which our beloved Omnists face much too often.

"And the Incorrigible Fridays?" you ask because somehow you found this blog interesting enough to read.

"Isn't it obvious?" I reply. "They are Fridays. Untameable Fridays. Unbound Fridays. Free as birds, ever seeking out the next adventure, perhaps at the bottom of a bottle or in the wind rushing through your hair as you flee the boring, inconspicuous order and greyness of the city. They are a promise of hope, of happier days, of the freedom to live as we truly are."