Dear Krispy Kreme,
When we first met, I was still so young. My metabolism posed no threat to our hot and steamy trysts. Everything was all so fresh and new.
I admit, I got a little obsessed. Not in a creepy, calling-you-and-hanging-up sort of way. It was more like a late-night-Internet-trawling-for-your-picture sort of crush.
Our planned rendezvous were enough to get me through the most mundane parts of college. It was you who got me through studying for the genetics final; I can now only remember the cloned sheep’s name was Dolly.
But, like Dolly, our passion couldn’t last.
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It didn’t feel so special when you started showing up at truckstops and gas stations. It felt so dirty. Soon, I started to see the real you - the carbs and the fat - beyond your sweet act.
It seems like I’m not the only one who has discovered the real you. When I heard you picked up and left two spots -- one in Doral, another in South Miami -- I have to say I wasn’t surprised. The man who answered your main number confirmed it. You left last month. But he wouldn’t tell me why.
I did find this last Miami address for you when I thought about saying goodbye in person: 590 N.E. 167th St. Your last stand.
Wishing you all the best, whatever streetcorner you end up on. But, I’m sorry Krispy, it will have to be without me. --Janine Zeitlin