There are no seats, so I’m standing at the window counter, ballpointing some brief sentences, fingers covered in sugar. I try to be mindful of my posture. I’m a semi-reformed sloucher, trying to stay upright with shoulders back, but I always end up feeling like C3PO. It’s my lot in life. No music in here, only refrigerator hum and two young ladies behind the glass cases not talking to each other. The smallest iced coffee here is twice as big as a coffee pot. Nice hand-painted signs behind the register, and my jelly donut is fine, damned fine. Across the four-lane road is a cemetery I’ve never noticed before and a Hooter’s with a full parking lot. The Donut Dip bag says “What Foods These Morsels Be!” This is possibly the finest slogan I have ever seen. Writing this feels rushed, a series of tweets, a telegram, a bullet-point list. Sugar and caffeine might be playing a role in this feeling. I already ate my donuts, and I still have 3 gallons of coffee left. When did “donut” become an accepted spelling variant of “doughnut”? Should I get more donuts to go? How does a person do that? Doesn’t everyone just eat them all in the car on the ride home? Son of a bitch.