Fritter

Speaking of love bombing, I need to apologize to everyone in my meeting this morning. Apparently, that fritter I bought down in the cafeteria while I was treating Erik to the donut he missed last time an out-of-date treat list was used left a big chunk of fritter glaze on my crotch. There's no way that was comfortable for anyone, except me, because at least I didn't notice it was there until much later. I was blissfully oblivious to how tasty I looked in those crotch-glazed jeans (I think that's a Conway Twitty song). I know one of you had to have taken affront. After all, it was about this big:

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It was like I had rubbed a fritter on my jeans for some sort of glazed fashion effect. Coupled with the melty ice cream treat from a friendly manager I managed to get on my shirt later in the day, I must have looked to be quite the chocolately-glazed treat. In retrospect, it makes me reconsider why the blonde on the outside patio gave me that look.