This weekend, in a Cuban bakery, Azucar — which, of course,  is Spanish for YOU’RE FAT  —  I happened upon a thing which is a Donut Muffin, and now I can’t stop thinking about it, its cinnamon, its consistency. It will now be the thing that I think wistfully of during moments of hunger boredom, stress hunger and hunger boredom stress, that I will try and find again, recreate, that I will drive to San Diego For.  I want to take a nap inside of one.  I  think I actually  miss it, in that way in which you meet someone, fall in love instantly, then eat them, then wonder where they went. Then miss them, accordingly.

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