When Tony O. lurched into my room, a paper bag clenched in his fist, it made me wish I'd gotten the lock fixed. This was the third time it had happened this week and it was only Tuesday.
"What's in the bag this time, Tony?" I asked him.
"Doughnut holes." He sounded really pleased with himself.
"That's a myth," I said, feeling pretty smug myself. "When they make ring doughnuts they don't punch out the centres. There's no such thing as doughnut holes. They're just lumps of fried dough."
"What kind of punk you take me for?" said Tony, his voice rising. "These aren't doughnut centres, these are doughnut HOLES!"
He handed me the bag and I opened it. It was empty. I turned it upside down and shook it.
"It's empty," I said.
Tony O. fell on his knees. "You dropped them!" he wailed, scrabbling at the carpet.
"Who sold you the holes, Tony?" I asked.
"And what else did he sell you?"
"Maybe a little acid."
An Abbreviated Diary
Woke up and got out of bed. I headed straight to my kitchen for a cup of coffee but no matter how hard I tried I couldn't get the lid off the coffee jar. I twisted it and twisted it but the jar just skirled noisy circles on the marble counter top. Went back to bed.
Woke up and got out of bed. I was gasping for a cup of coffee so I went straight to my kitchen. The coffee jar was where I'd left it. Nothing I tried would get the lid off. Went back to bed.
Woke up and got out of bed. Hopped to the kitchen and glared at the coffee jar for a while. Went back to bed.
Stayed in bed.