They’re opening a Krispy Kreme in my town.
Correction: they’re opening a Krispy Kreme six blocks from where I work. I will pass it every morning and twice if I leave my office for lunch and then probably again when I go home at night. Whenever I go to Barnes and Noble, donut donut donut. Whenever I go to the mall, hot donut hi donut nicetameetcha!
They’ve got this sadistic little countdown banner up too. I’ve been watching it warily, like an ex-addict eyeing up the local crack house. 11 days until Grand Opening! 10 days until Grand Opening! 7 days until Grand Opening! The Hot Donuts Now neon sign is already hanging in the window, dark and ominous as a cumulonimbus cloud.
On the weekends, someone must not be there to change the number, so it will sit in stasis, and I’ll sort of breathe a sigh of relief, as though a stay of execution has just come in. But then, on Monday, it will jump ahead. 4 Days until Grand Opening!
This is a bad thing. This is a very bad thing.
The last few times I’ve been in the vicinity of fresh Krispy Kreme, I have abstained. It’s been a lot easier that way. I’ve been able to maintain my objectivity. They’re just donuts. They’re just fucking donuts. They’re just plain glazed dripping in sin and mouth orgasms in handy ass lard circle of obscene pleasure donuts.
And those are just the room temperature donuts. We will not describe the Hot Now donuts because just
Excuse me. Where was I?
So the plan’ oh yes, the plan. I’ve got a donut plan, how sad is that shit? ‘Fat girl with the donut plan’ will be the text they display under my face as I sit on the dais of the Ricky Lake show. Anyway, my donut plan is this: Severe Avoidance At All Costs. In fact, I’m never going to go into the Krispy Kreme. Not once. Not even for the first time. If I completely shun it all together, I won’t even consider zipping through on my way into work (when I am usually famished because I only managed to come up with a way to feed myself breakfast about half of the time and the other half resort to whatever miscellaneous breakfast bar I’ve managed to squirrel away inside my desk or perhaps hope to forage for filing cabinet sustenance (which, luckily, is usually pretty easy because my office eats more chili cheese dip and Fritos in a year than the entire population of Rhode Island (and that includes years when the Patriots are in the Superbowl), (Ok, I think that’s punctuated correctly (as correctly as multiple layers of parentheticals can be, but it looks really really awful and is also giving me a sharp pain right above my eye, so I had to include a third set so that it wouldn’t be a ten car punctuation pileup and bring all word traffic to a close until the wreckage could be removed) (everyone still with me? Got your buddy? Good.)) So the donut plan is to not visit Krispy Kreme, no, not even just one time. It’s either that or go into a diabetic coma. I need a damned sponsor or something. I should do the 12 steps. What’s the first one? Admit there is a hotter donut? My name is Weetabix and I’m 65 days donut sober.
I’m thinking of stealing that fucking Days Until Grand Opening sign (because if they can’t count down to the 1 Days Until Grand Opening (which has been making me crazy thinking about how bad that will look, with the blatant disregard for plural rules built right into the fucking sign and then I would avoid seeing that on Wednesday, which will undoubtedly make my eyes bleed) then they can’t open the store? Right? Are you with me? Chyeah).
Or firebombing the damned store. Whichever.
