Doughnuts Have An Aftertaste Of Crippling Guilt

Much like Cher, if I could turn back time I’d try to be someone who could demonstrate restraint.  Instead I’m soaked in shame, tears mixed with sweat, and it’s not even ten in the morning yet.  The quickly-achieved, shortsighted mouth climax has promptly yielded to sadness. I’m left feeling like my bank account, withdrawn, empty, and now serving only as a painful reminder of poor decisions.

This post-doughnut aftermath is grim.  It’s not in my job description, but the rest of this workday will be spent curled up in the backseat of my car, sobbing and trying to avoid catching my reflection in the rearview mirror.

“Take a doughnut,” they said. “They’re so yummy and it’s a fun treat,” they said.  I pondered it for a second, fulfilling the illusion I was actually debating on taking one or not.  I don’t know whom I thought was fooling—anyone could read my hot, frothing lips and derive my intentions.  On the verge of drooling and perspiring, I crept towards the box. Yes, I was super wet and aching for a caking without regard for the consequences of getting filled.

Shamelessly I browsed through the carton, examining and deliberating the pros and cons of each like I deciding over medical treatments or baby names.  After much thought, internal bargaining, and concession making, I settled on a custard-filled, chocolate-topped, four-hundred-calorie guilt inducer.  I retreated to my desk and turned the picture of my family around; I didn’t want them to see me like this.

Right then I should have just lit a cigarette and put it out right on top of that tasty delight before throwing the whole thing away.  At the very least I should have put a tarp down.  Instead, like a baby bird, I spread my jaws open and threw my head back, effectively utilizing gravity to maximize my gorging potential.

What ensued was a succinct display of fiercely passionate oral coitus between a man and a doughnut.  A cloud of crumbs engulfed my workspace, the whole scene taking on a depression-era, Dust-Bowl quality.   My coworkers gaped and cowered; it was like Sea World—no one quite wanted to be in the proverbial Splash Zone, but everyone wanted to watch this fat whale feed.

The uninhibited orgy of cake, chocolate, and cream continued at full throttle.  My heart raced and my muscled involuntarily clenched as the waves of pleasure resonated and crashed throughout my quivering body.  The rampage of indulgence culminated in a final, moan-inducing bite that raised eyebrows from the office spectators.  Anyone who has ever asserted the claim that all people are beautiful had never witnessed anything as primal, as carnal, or as violent as this.

I could feel the self-hatred storm brewing as I sat there, thick cream congealed around my face socket like a money shot resembling something out of a porn made by the obese for the obese. Why did I have to submit to peer pressure? I could have just walked away or I could have just smashed every doughnut in that box with my fist, but, regrettably, I’m weak.  I know it’s just one, but it’s the first step on a slippery, glaze-coated slope that ends with me bedridden, sucking on a maple-syrup-soaked rag and waiting to die by being swallowed up by my own filth.  Remorse and regret consume me on a level I haven’t felt since I paid actual American currency to see The Adventures of Pluto Nash opening night.

Remember this feeling, Justin; savor the shame, the self-loathing, and the disgrace and maybe, just maybe, you can develop the resolve to just say no the next time you’re offered a doughnut, or invited to watch Eddie Murphy.