"German chocolate, mom," you shout scoldingly at your poor mother. "I made a simple fucking request and that was to have a German fucking chocolate cake at my fucking birthday party and you try to pass off this devil's food bullshit on me."
Your mother tries futilely to soothe you "Sweetie, I-"
"You can save the sweetie shit for someone who didn't run out of fucks last year when their birthday was ruined because some dumb whore didn't know the difference between a bouncy castle and a bouncy motherfucking slide!"
Your mother attempts to choke back her tears. All she wants is for you to be happy, and it seems no matter her efforts, you're determined to be miserable on the day of your birth. "I'm sorry, honey, I'm really trying here."
"You're trying?" you scoff. "Would a woman who's trying get a mime instead of a clown, when she knows her son has a horrifying phobia of people who refuse to speak?"
"Would a woman who's trying book Chuck E. fucky Cheeses when she knows - knows! - that Celebration Station is the only party destination for the fruit of her loins? They have fucking go-karts, mom!"
"Would a mother of one, whose stated purpose is to love and care for the only child her otherwise terrible marriage produced, who is, as she claims to be, trying, buy Batman-themed napkins and plates when she is aware in her heart of hearts and mind of minds that her son is awakened to the one single truth that DC is bullshit for kindergarteners and Spider-Man flatware is the ONLY POSSIBLE REASONABLE CONCLUSION A THINKING WOMAN COULD EVER ARRIVE AT? Is that possible in the universe in which we currently reside, MOM?"
"The answer is a resounding 'no,' mother, but you know what? I'm over it. Send the mime away and tell my guests I've taken ill. I shan't be seen at this atrocity of a party."
"Yes, dear," your mother concedes, feeling utterly useless and defeated. She turns to walk out of your bedroom.
"Perhaps, mother," you add as she exits, "if you wish me to continue to address you as such, you should try harder to ensure that my thirty-seventh birthday next year is not a repeat of this farce."