Thank you Dunkin Donuts for making me look stupid.

I realized last night that for the majority of my adult life, I have misspelled the word "doughnuts." How could someone with a college degree in English misspell such a common word, you may ask. Well, here is a little secret: I only made it to the school spelling bee once in elementary school (5th grade), and I was kicked out in the first round. I don't even remember the word that got me disqualified, but I think that was the complete shock and mortification that sunk after realizing I hadn't even made it to Round #2: Verbs.

However, I now believe there is another culprit at large. When you break down in scientific terms exactly what constitutes a doughnut, you have some dough that is in the shape of a nut. Why not put the two together for fun?! But in 1950, William Rosenberg decided to unleash the ultimate mind fuck when he named his store Dunkin Donuts. Why he chose this spelling, I don't know. His first store's name was The Open Kettle, so I would assume if spelling wasn't his forte, he would have chosen Thee Opin Kettel. I can only guess that Rosenberg thought that Dunkin Donuts sounded catchy, and maybe he wanted to save on typewriter ink - donut is arguably shorter than doughnut. He obviously wanted to take the "ugh" out of ordering ink cartridges for his machine. Well, "ugh" is the noise I made when I realized how often I misspelled doughnut. Thanks Mr. Rosenberg. Your thriftiness has made me look like a dumb ass.

I can only guess that my early adoption of Dunkin Donuts' doughnut holes as a staple in my diet led to me believe that doughnuts was actually donut. Most people would believe that letting your six year old eat at least a dozen doughnut holes isn't a good idea, but it was the 1980s and EVERYBODY was eating doughnut holes. Ahhh...the Reagan years: A time where kids weren't fat, regardless of the fact that they ate McDonald's breakfast meals and Dunkin Donuts doughnut holes. Those were good times.

So Mr. Rosenberg, I'm telling you today that I might still have the inclination to leave out the "ugh", but I now know better. I'll be damned if your tasty donut holes trick me again. Dammit...

Krispy Kreme mania…or glaze-induced epidemic? YOU BE THE JUDGE! MWA-HA-HA-HA-HA!

On a flight to Adelaide, a total of six different passengers boarded a flight carrying boxes containing a dozen Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I’ve never seen such a consolidated group of people so enthusiastic about Krispy Kreme doughnuts…well…outside of the groups of Krispy Kreme customers I’ve seen inside the actual Krispy Kreme stores. There were enough people on the plane carrying Krispy Kremes that even one of the flight attendants mentioned so over the intercom system after demonstrating the safety procedures on the plane.

So as a result, I ask you, the reader, would you use one of your carry-on allowances to transport Krispy Kreme doughnuts from another state (in this case from New South Wales to South Australia)? As for me, I will admit that I had never thought of transporting large amounts of doughnuts across state lines, but after being on a flight in close quarters with such a wonderful snack food without the option to eat a doughnut myself (What self-respecting person would ask a complete stranger on an airplane if they could have one of their doughnuts when it’s obviously a prized possession that they are willing to carry across state lines?), I began to have a hankering for some glazed goodness. Who am I to say “no” to a doughnut? And that my friends, is why I was a fat kid.

Dr. Pepper Tastes Like Aqua Net: Why I like not having too much responsibility (originally posted March 27, 2006)

This morning, I woke up hung over. And not only that, I woke up late. I jumped out of bed at the cusp of sleeping in and oversleeping. It was 7:15 a.m., and I needed to be uptown by 8:30. I brushed my teeth as the shower heated up, and I frantically ran around my apartment trying to get things in order. All the while, I felt as if I was going to throw up. The room was spinning and I was freaking out. I didn't want to be late when I had only been at my new job for a week.

After setting the new world record for vomitting AND shampooing my hair at the same time, I clocked the rest of my morning ritual in under 15 minutes flat. I typically don't like to rush, so I was amazed at just how slow I must be in the morning if I typically wake up at 6:15 a.m. and don't leave my apartment until 7:45 a.m. Apparently I can stretch the task of eating a small container of yogurt into a 15 minute ordeal.

After cleaning up what was left of the half eaten bagel and goat cheese I ate the night before in a drunken haze, I headed out the door, telling myself that once I got some fresh air, I'd feel better. I learned an important truth this morning: I am, in fact, retarded. To think that New York City air is going to make you feel better is something that only lends itself to the mentally challenged, and I, my friends, am apparently running on half a brain most of the time.

Getting on the F train was the closest thing to nailing my own coffin that I've ever experienced. People crowded around me, and all the while I thought "Oh god. I hope that man doesn't like his suit too much because I can give no guarantees about my ability to projectile vomit" and "please little kid step away from me. I don't want to yack on your head. I imagine bile and goat's cheese is impossible to get out of corn rows."

The V train was a bit better, as I was able to get a seat, and the train was relatively empty. The V train has this magic ability to always remain half empty despite the fact that it runs a very central route through the city. My seat was right by the door, so I was lucky enough to get a nice breeze every time the doors opened. Also, a man who resembled Superman sat across from me, and I believe that the 20 minutes of incessant staring at his chest to see if I could see his trademark costume did a fine job of creeping him out. His chest was also acting as a point of reference as to stop the spinning in my head. And oddly enough, I think being on the subway whilst experiencing the hung over spins is the closest thing to LSD I'll ever experience. If only Led Zeppelin had been playing in the background, the scene would have been complete.

Luckily, the train was moving fast, so I made it to work with time to spare. I immediately raided the pantry and learned that Doritos and doughnuts with pink frosting and sprinkles cure any sort of beer-induced headache. Also, Dr. Pepper tastes like Aqua Net if you drink it with Doritos. But the most important part is that I'm getting paid to do all this. My boss asked me if I was feeling okay, and of course I lied and said "Never been better." She replied with "I'm so hungover right now. God, I envy your job. No responsibility except to answer the phone and look cute." And she's right. I look like a fucking angel while eating a pink donut, and the FedEx guy told me I had a cute white girl giggle. Then he winked at me, so I'm guessing that was a compliment. The mailman even said that he liked my hair, and that he reminded him of the girlfriend he had when he was 22, because apparently I look "mod." I've noted this and plan on wearing shift dressed and big earrings for the forseeable future.

Envious? Well, you shouldn't be. Anyone can achieve this level of fame. All it takes is a severe lack of direction, fear of adult responsibility, an office that occasionally buys donuts and stocks their pantries with good snacks. Also, if you can look adorable while hungover, you're on the fast track for success.