My, what a great 23 or so years it has been. We have had a great run together … and though it pains me to do this, I must send you my official farewell.
We first met when I was a young child. I liked you right away. When the other kids were spending time with brownies or cookies, you were my first love. When my friends blew out candles on a birthday cake each year, my birthday wishes were granted over one of you — one big candle stuck into a black and white swirled frosted doughnut. And my wish always came true.
As the years went on, I got to know your children, the Munchkins. They traveled to school with me in a big cardboard box with handles each time I had an event to celebrate — a birthday, Chanukah, the end of the school year. Powdered, jelly-filled, glazed, or chocolate, I loved your little ones with all my heart. Any time I brought them, I was instantly the most popular kid in the class.
And so it was through my adolescence — a happy, loving relationship. But then it began to turn sour.
In high school, the choir, the dance group, the swim team, and the sophomore class seemed to all gather together to decide on the same fundraiser: Selling a dozen Krispy Kremes for $5. How could I not support those clubs trying to earn money? So I bought your friends and brought them home. And ate one. Or two. Or two and a half. And then a half, but a few hours later.
My stomach, though, didn’t love the idea. It punished me by making me feel full yet hollow, greasy and gross.
Knowing myself and knowing my body, I knew that I could never eat just one of those perfectly glazed three-bite treats. So, later in my high school career, I promised myself that I would stop eating Krispy Kremes. And I have lived up to my word.
But others of your kind were different. Those were no big deal. Still delicious, still hit the spot. Especially your friend Entenmann that comes with the little crumbly toppings.
I wouldn’t go out of my way to buy one of you. But working in an office where people put out food in the kitchenette five feet away from my office, it has occasionally happened that I’d sneak away with a half of one of you. Or a full one. Or two. And every time, you make me feel gross. Worthless. Like I have to purchase an elliptical and a treadmill and one of those rowing machines and use them all day long in order to feel like myself again.
So, my dear doughnuts, I have made a decision today. With all of the readers of my blog as my witness, I will never again eat one of your kind. I’ve mistaken love for lust, and it just isn’t worth the pain.
You ask if there’s someone else — well … actually … there is. Ice cream doesn’t hurt me like you do. Neither do cookies, brownies, blondies, yogurt, cheesecakes, pies, chocolate-covered cashews, gelato, milkshakes, pudding, chocolate mousse cake, or red velvet Oreo truffle brownie bars. They respect me for who I am and don’t make me feel awful.
I wish we could have done this goodbye in person; but it would have been too painful. I wish you the best of luck with other people. I will always cherish our memories and I will never ever forget you.
Yours one last time,
P.S. Can you give me chocolate mousse cake’s phone number?