Betty Crocker had no hand in this.

As of late, my inner Duncan Hines has been on the loose. A muchacho of mine had a birthday today and I thought, cupcakes would make this day perfect. But, I did have a prerequisite: they could not be bastardized by the dough boy. I spent most of the afternoon searching the interwebs for the magical formula. The one that won my heart was a simple chocolate cupcake with butter cream frosting. I read and re-read the recipe, then decided that I could make this fantasy become a reality.
I left my apartment armed with a list and a whole lotta hope. I stalked the aisles at Ralphs like a gerbil in a cheese factory looking for my components. When I came across the baking shelves, I admittedly lost steam. Grazing the box mixes, my mind unfurled into a realization: why go to all the trouble of mixing ingredients and hoping against all hope that it may or may not taste good when all I gotta do is get eggs, oil and some water? The temptation was overwhelming, especially since the loss of steam was becoming apparent. Biting my lip, I reach for the cocoa powder that will (hopefully) blow minds while imbibing my mystical baked goods.
When I arrived home; my laboratory started coming together. Benny Goodman on the turn table, and all the tools of the trade: 2 mixing bowls, spatula, cupcake tin with foil cups for said comestibles; blender and an apron to catch all the delicious mistakes.
I was surprised how good the result was: I almost purchased some store mades just so I could have a control to compare my specimen to. After several minutes of self-congratulatory goodness, and pure awe that I didn't completely screw it up, my hips busted out a lil' ditty to celebrate my latest conquest.