It all started back when I was little. Very little. You see, you can't aspire to be a doughnut, it just happens. One day, there you are, a doughnut. Now, that sounds really unglamourous, probably. More an instance of luck or divine order or something than any sort of skill on the part of the doughnut, and you might be right. But it takes a damn lot of courage to persevere when you finally do come to accept that hey, there you are, a doughnut, whether you wanted it or not. And there's no use denying your very basic nature and aspiring to not be a doughnut, or maybe aspiring to be a different kind of doughnut; once a doughnut, always a doughnut, is what I say. Though I think someone else might have said it first. I just like the sentiment, and use it on a regular basis when thinking or talking about my lot in life.
Now, by when I was little I mean little temporally, not size-wise, as doughnuts don't really change size over the course of our lives, I don't know if you've ever noticed. In any case, I'm actually a decent size for a doughnut. Even for some non-doughnut-based lifeforms I might be considered big. And this is with the big hole cut in the middle of me; no, I'm not one of those namby-pamby filled doughnuts, I'm the genuine article. Bit of chocolate, a few sprinkles, the whole nine yards. I once got a little too close to a glazed doughnut, and I think I've even got a bit of her glazing on me, to one side. But that's the cardinal rule you never want to break: never get too close to another doughnut. And I did. And man, did I ever pay for it.
I just think it was one of those things, you know? Mutual broken hearts, metaphorically speaking, the symbolic heart, not the actual one, because there really aren't a whole lot of moving parts inside us doughnuts, you see, sorrowful parting, and nights afterward of longing, perhaps thinking that we missed out on something big, something bigger than the both of us; her a glazed special from the dark side of the tracks, me an occasionally philosophical chocolate and sprinkles hard man from the west.
And though I try to play it down most of the time, I think it did really affect me, and wherever she is out there, out there in the Great Wherever, I'm just hoping she's forgiven me for selling her brother out to the feds back in the big fiasco when I was young and stupid and prone to selling people out to the feds, because it was a warzone, man, and it wasn't really feasible not living like you were the only doughnut out there, because otherwise you were bound to find yourself mashed up at the bottom of an elevator shaft alongside the bodies of Bob the Mailman and Jimmy the something, I always forget his nickname. Bob I think was actually a mail man, which is kind of interesting, and a lot less difficult to explain than Jimmy's nickname, which, as I've said, I've forgotten for the moment, because you can just say, oh yeah, we call him Bob the Mailman 'cause that's his job, he's a mail man.
But I digress. No one wants that end. It's a tough world sometimes, and I'm not complaining, it's just the way it is.
One thing I like is that it's kind of nice knowing you never have to iron a shirt, or even attempt to iron one.
I could probably try, if someone really wanted me to, but I want to stick with what I'm good at, know my own limits, that sort of thing. You know?
But these days I take it easy. I don't make the same mistakes I used to, which is what mistakes are for, I suppose, instruction. I keep to myself, mostly, except for the occasional trip to the pub, where I get to telling a story, somewhat autobiographical, because we all want to be remembered, you know? And we all want to think we've got something to pass on. Life isn't really any less hectic than it used to be in those days, I just think people have gotten used to it, sort of adapted the pace of the warzone to suit their style as best they could, and they get by. They manage in the space they've got, whether it's doughnut space or mail man space or that wacked out little chihuahua dog down the street that's always yapping space.
I'm not saying I'm a good doughnut, far from it. I try, as anybody would, to get on with whatever I got. I'm not a great doughnut, and I don't think many people would say I'm a bad one. No, not a bad one at all.
disclaimer:
The serial will still be back, just not this week, either, if you've gotten this far and didn't realise it wasn't the serial. The serial. Again. This was the story of a doughnut, for the love of Pete. If you hadn't picked up on that there's really not a whole lot of hope for you, is there? I mean, we spell it out for you and everything.
Meanwhile, for those of you, intelligent and unintelligent alike, wishing to brush up on the serial now absolutely known as the Great Untitled (and Titled) Serial, we've provided a handy navigation for it right here:
- Untitled No. 4 in Black
- Untitled No. 5 in Black-ish-Grey
- Untitled No. 6 with a Title (Attempted Seduction)
- Untitled No. 7, Untitled Again
Get down with your bad selves. Dude.
Yer Weekly Horoscopes. No. 202.