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Cinn

cinnabon bunn

I’ve been dreaming about it for a week now. I’m only allowed sugar on Fridays. No doctor or dietician told me this, but my body did. My body decided sugar needed to a become a treat again versus two or three times a day. For the first few weeks after my body and I made the decision, I dreamed in sugar laced drowning dreams of donut shops and ice cream parlors. Even in my sex dreams - people tasted like maple syrup and brandied apples. I dreamt of multiple bowls of Captain Crunch. 

But now it’s been a few months. And my mind and body have figured it out. It had also caught me when I using honey instead of sugar rationalizing that it wasn’t the same thing. Funny how these self regulated prisons work, huh? I treat rice Krispy treats like gifts the magi might have brought the savior two thousand years ago. We three kings of orient are, bring cinnamon rolls, sweet tea and chocolate ice cream profiteroles with whipped cream and a cherry. 

All was good till I walked by the bakery on a blustery rainy day. I grasped my umbrella and was forging ahead when out of my periphery… it. appeared. Glistening behind the raindrop speckled glass was a perfectly lit, perfectly coiffed brown sugar clad treasure. It reminded me of that scene in Raiders in the Lost Ark when Jones finds the golden head in the cave - and measures the right amount of sand to not bring the entire place down on his head. Only in my fantasy it’s a bag full of glistening perfectly processed white sugar. 

Who top lights a fucking cinnamon danish? “A baker who knows what a weak motherfucker you are being right now,” my conscious quickly answered in defiance. 

I reached out and touched the glass like I was viewing the Crown Jewels in the finest museum. Today, sadly, is a Saturday....

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