Dear Carbs: You Callow Donut

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Dear Carbs:

I think you know what this is about. I saw you at Trader Joe's yesterday. There you were, chilling with the cinnamon roles, flirting with that cheap-looking girl in the white tank top. She stared long and hard at you, the lust in her eyes shining brighter than her day-glo blue eye shadow. She picked you up, put you in her cart, put you back on the shelf, walked a few steps and then pirouetted around, stretched out her arm and grabbed you good and tight.

I know I was the one who broke things off between us, so you might not think I have any right to say this, but I'm saying it anyway. You are one callow donut. You are are all glazed and beautiful on the outside, but on the inside you are as sensitive and deep as the little air pockets that puff you up.

Two weeks! Fourteen days! I have mourned for you! I have been reduced to snacking on SUNFLOWER SEEDS! For dessert I'm eating CELERY! Last night I had a "spicy pork burger" with no fricking bun!

And you...you flaccid ball of dough, you are running off with tank-top girl and her disco eyes. Like I never even mattered. Like I meant nothing to you.

I bet that slut is licking your sweet icing right now.

FINE. Fine. Be that way. I don't need you. I have my new BFF "carb watchers" no-sugar added ice cream to keep me warm. So there! You can just rot in hell for all I care.

God, I miss you, you big jerk.