Apr 4, 2018

Bread


 I am a baker. People tell me what I bake is not dough. Although it all looks the same to me and all I cook for enjoy my bread.
 I am always confused as to why so many neglect my dough and why they show me pictures of me making it. They all use weird words, which all mean dough. I have always been cooking it and my mother always supported me, so she sent me to a special school. There I baked more and many loved my dough.
 Nobody ever wanted to work with me, which was always very confusing. I never understood this weird love and hate for my dough, and every time I read newspapers I see the same thing: “amazing new concept of dough”, which always confuses me, since I never think I did anything different, and “horrific”, “dog”, “blood”, “cat”, “living beings”. Why everybody blames me for making bread of living beings is confusing. They are dough beings, of different sizes. Bakers always cook dough, and so do I. To avoid the other bakers and people arguing with what I do, I go at midnight and collect my usual dough. From special places where they grow it or houses where they keep it. I always get out their collars and then mash them with my rolling pin. I then cook it with love in the morning and sell it.
 My bakery has gone up in flames two times. I was informed it wasn't of natural causes, but the arsonists were never found.
 Would you eat my bread?

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