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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