I have a late night disease. Before the sun has the audacity to show its face, I creep into barely open donut shops to meet my lover. There’s a romance there that I can only attempt to understand. Take me very seriously right now. I remember the first time I had one: I was barely 17 years old but there is no age for this kind of connection. It was early and they were fresh. The initial ingress into my mouth summons a gooey euphoria. The ball is so light. The next donut hole soothes my salivating palette. My hollow pits fill with fluffy, ethereal pleasure—transcending all other breakfast beauty. Donut holes are simple but provide evanescent ooze as my lust breaks the fried cloud apart. The honeyed sweetness is like a melody; you don’t know if you ever want it to stop. Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes you just want more instead, just ask Adele.
A bag of a dozen feels empty, as if the darlings were never really there. They weigh enough to hold maybe a napkin down but they heavy my heart like the jubilation of a newborn baby. The glaze brings enough mind and soul through my blood flow to remember that I’m a part of a bigger system. It reminds me that the universe is real. It reminds me that life can tangibly be measured in increments of twelve. The noble Asians tirelessly rise to this majestic, early morning occasion – only they have mastered this donut art. Nothing has ever literally consumed my heart this way before. If you don’t get the donuts at their prime at five in the morning, then what are you doing with your life? They are worth pennies in our vile, material world but their love provides me with a shred of liberation. Donut holes answer my questions; they give me patience. Each warm bite I take engulfs my body with joy and treks through my limbs with might and justice. Their mere existence is the juxtaposition to all that is true of a donut hole. I am indebted to the happiness that donut holes have given me and there’s no trouble believing it.