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2002-08-22 10:56 a.m.


Blueberry. And bran. At the same time.

I would like a muffin please.

How can anyone not love the muffin? So soft, so plump and round, so sweet. Blueberry is my favorite. And chocolate. The muffin makes me feel so desperate, so hasty. An unconscious urgency pressures me from within. I can't stop myself, there is no possibility for restraint. I devour the muffin like a dog inhales food.

Today I ate a little, runt one. It was blueberry. And bran. Yes, both at the same time, even. I felt dirty like a teenager in a dark movie theater with his girlfriend to his left and her best friend to his right. Neither girl knows he has one hand between each of their legs, probing, pressing deeper.

But, after I eat a muffin I don't feel satisfied. There is no happy medium between not enough and too much when I eat a muffin. That is because the muffin is binary like a drug. There is zero and there is one, nothing else. If you take too little, you get no effect—you feel nothing, except a dollar poorer. If you take enough, you get an effect—it happens. For me, the effect of muffins is to feel altered. I call this muffin alteration, 'slightly nauseated'. A medium to large one always does it for me, even if I have to wait five or ten minutes for it to kick in.

I don't always want to eat the muffin, as I see it as more than a food. In some ways the muffin is a whore to me. I want to find ways to hurt the muffin—degrade it. I want to flirt with the insecure day–old muffin, but drop subtle hints that it is fat and undesirable. I want to reach my fingertips slowly towards one muffin and maybe even graze it with an intentionally lustful touch, my eyes fixed on its curves and berries. Then I will abruptly choose a pastry instead—the muffin is left, alone.

The muffin makes me want to say words I would never say in real life; do things I could not bring myself to do to any person. I want to hate fuck the muffin under the guise of tenderness. I will abuse the muffin and smash my cock into it over and over, then eat off its crusty sides—the tastiest part, where the dough spilled out of the muffin cup onto the top of the baking pan. I'll chew and observe the sweetness and moistness, but I won't swallow. I will spit it all out into the muffin's shirt, which is the first thing I grab off the floor. I will tell the muffin I love it, but I will never mean it.

That is why I would like a muffin, please.


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