2007: Paris and a Doughnut

Some 51 hours ago I was at the Louvre, walking on four levels of pillars and heavy marble. Now, I’m sitting in a Starbucks in the Luxor, Las Vegas. a faux pyramid hotel that reeks of desperation and false hope. The croissants here are $3.50 and could easily feed a few people. It cost me $0.50 to change my drink to soy. I’m trying to avoid dairy after a book and a certain PETA video involving a Ukrainian in a yellow jumper and black wellies tearing at the trachea of a living cow with a meat hook. Blood sprayed over the man as the cow hit the sides of the walls with its large body and its weight shifted painfully from hoof to hoof until it couldn’t support itself anymore. So yeah, I’m trying to avoid drinking a lot of milk. I haven’t seen video footage of tortured soy beans, but maybe that’s next.

I didn’t buy a pastry today. I never do. My brother was really into them when we were little. He ordered Bear Claws most often. When he was sick we used to stop at K’s Donuts on Fallbrook and Ventura and pick up a pink box filled with Long Johns, sugar coated, chocolate frosted, and primary-color sprinkled ones. Then we would take them to the doctors and nurses and sick kids. Phil was diagnosed with leukemia when he was 21 months old. My mom was 24 and my dad barely over 30. When people talk about the theoretical happiness of young parenthood, I wonder how fun it must have been for my parents.

I don’t eat donuts anymore.


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