The clock read 10:00 AM, but time was irrelevant. I had already sparked up the first joint of the day, a sticky strain that goes by the name of Blueberry Muffin, a fitting companion for the confectionary orgy that awaited. As the weed kicked in, I felt my mind uncoil like a rattlesnake in the desert sun, ready to strike at the heart of this cream-filled anarchy.
I navigated the streets with the precision of a bloodhound hot on a trail, drawn by the siren song of freshly baked donuts. The local bakery, a small mom-and-pop operation, was my first stop. The place was buzzing with a mix of sugar junkies and donut enthusiasts, all here to pay homage to the holy trinity of flour, sugar, and oil.
As I approached the counter, my senses were assaulted by an array of colors and textures. There were the classics—glazed, chocolate, powdered—but my eyes were locked on the Boston creams. Rows of them, their chocolate tops glistening under the fluorescent lights, hiding the decadent vanilla custard within.
“Give me a dozen of your finest, The Boston Creams” I barked, barely able to contain my excitement. The cashier, a young woman with a nose ring and an air of detached amusement, complied without question. She had seen my kind before—the crazed gleam in the eye, the twitchy fingers—no doubt a fellow traveler on the road to oblivion.
I found a corner booth, far from the prying eyes of the establishment, and laid out my stash. The joint had left me ravenous, a hunger only exacerbated by the promise of creamy, chocolate-covered ecstasy. I bit into the first Boston cream, the sweet explosion of custard in my mouth sending shockwaves through my stoned brain. This was no mere donut; it was a ticket to another dimension.
As I devoured another, my thoughts drifted to the absurdity of it all. Here we were, a nation obsessed with wellness and longevity, yet we dedicate a day to these fried monstrosities. Perhaps it was this very contradiction that made National Donut Day so irresistible—a middle finger to the health nuts and puritans, a celebration of excess in a world gone mad with restraint.
The weed was still in overdrive, turning every bite into a transcendental experience. I was no longer in a dingy bakery but floating through a sugary dreamscape, where rivers of custard flowed and donut trees bore fruit. I could hear the distant laughter of donut fairies, their wings dusted with powdered sugar.
I finished the last of my Boston creams, the creamy custard lingering on my tongue like a bittersweet memory. It was time to leave this temple of gluttony, to venture back into the world and face the consequences of my indulgence. As I stumbled out into the daylight, the weed still coursing through my veins, I felt a sense of satisfaction, a fleeting moment of clarity in the chaos.
National Donut Day had claimed another victim, but I was unbowed. For in the end, we are all just chasing that perfect high, that elusive taste of bliss that makes the madness worthwhile. And on this day, at least, I had found it in the creamy center of a Boston cream, the sacred heart of America’s sweet, twisted soul.
Keep it weird,
