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LAST DANCE
DAY THREE: Wednesday.
“Sprinkles Day.”
“It’s like a used car lot full of clunkers.”
In the spirit of full disclosure, the above sentence was my grandma describing the dating pool at her assisted living home. But her words can prove handy for almost any scene of abundant mediocrity. And after all the hoopla surrounding “Sprinkles Day,” the spectacle is beyond disappointing. A half-eaten cake donut, the crumbs of some sugary twist thing, and part of a glazed puck that looks like a puny spaceship that crashed into some sticky alien matter. Framing this sad masterpiece are a few loose sprinkles, dotting a flimsy trail along the desolate landscape of the box.
To be fair, I’m two hours late, since it’s 8:00 a.m. and the feeding frenzy officially started at six. But it’s not l
