Why You Keep Writing on Medium
Because it’s like crack and Krispy Kreme Doughnuts
--
So, I’m in another one of my moods. Why? Well, maybe because all I ate today was a Venti Java Chip Frappuccino, a large Mocha Frappe, and a grilled cheese sandwich. And some Reese’s. And some Robitussin to help rid me of this hacking cough I am left with following an upper respiratory infection from hell.
What has this world come to when you have to tell the Target cashier your birthdate to procure a bottle of Robitussin? I mean, all she had to do was look at me. I’m a 55-year-old broad with snot running down my face (ok, she couldn’t see that because I was wearing a mask), dark circles under my eyes, and hair that looks like it got caught in a food processor. I look like complete shit, and she tells me she has to key my birth date into the register or she can’t sell me cough medicine.
This is likely all because a bunch of teenagers went Robi-tripping and ended up dead, and now I’m going to get hate emails from some angry woman whose kid died because they were addicted to cough medicine. Look, I’m sorry about your kid, but I really need that crappy-tasting shit because, well, it works.
Anyway, when I was writing the title for this story, I wasn’t sure how to spell Krispy Kreme, so I typed it into my phone and discovered a Krispy Kreme Doughnuts store six miles from where I live. I have been here for eight years, and I had no idea. And it has a drive-through, which means I can just put on dark glasses and my Kate Spade baseball cap that I got on clearance, and no one will know it’s me buying large quantities of donuts. Donut eaters anonymous.
Unfortunately, the drive-through was already closed, so I’ll have to partake another day. But had it been open, I would have hopped in my vehicle assembled in the plant where my husband works in the fine city of Detroit, and I would have bought a box of a dozen custard-filled chocolate-covered Krispy Kreme Doughnuts. Then, I would have raced home, grabbed the box of Krispy Kremes and a plastic fork (I don’t like getting the chocolate frosting on my fingers, so I use a fork, but I can’t explain why it has to be plastic — probably so I can easily dispose of all evidence of my binge), a bunch of paper towels, and scurried up to my bedroom. Then I would…
