What I have
learnt this week
is that doughnuts
must go out in
a blaze of glory.
Like all great discoveries
(stumbling upon
penicillin, for example),
it was
accidental.
Give the
doughnut some respect,
said the
thought.
I achieved this
noble end
by placing the
doughnut on a plate
and cutting it
up sensibly,
with a knife and
fork, as if it were a sensible food,
like lasagne,
or a nut roast.
A carefully cut
up doughnut
is a curiously
joyless affair.
Yes, I will
admit that,
unlike all of
my previous doughnut eating escapades,
the post-scoff
guilt failed to materialise,
but, more
importantly,
the eating of
it
was as dismal as
it was unsatisfactory.
The following
day,
I atoned for
this error
by demolishing
a doughnut
in three swift
mouthfuls.
I barely had
time to enjoy it.
It was
glorious.
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