Some days, my heart feels like a donut being stuffed with cream on cream on cream on cream. So much cream that I'm worried it might explode like a cream-filled zombie being slaughtered by a zombie hunter with the most effective method of extermination found through years of experience zombie hunting: overcooking in a giant zombie-sized microwave.

But it never does. (Explode.) The cream just layers in like fossils, smushing them into dense hard-packed angry layers of crunchy cream like too many similes stacked on top of one another.

All I want to do is punch a hole in my donut-heart's powdery fucking face.

All donuts should have holes.