Cinnamon buns.

I like cinnamon buns.  They are my favorite pastry.  But I do not eat them often, nor feed them to my children, despite the fact that my husband, for a living, compels robots to make them, or something like that.  He WILL NOT BRING THEM HOME to us, though.  He brings chocolate chips aplenty.  I do not like chocolate chips.

On that note, here’s something I read in the breed ’em and weep archives that rang true, not just because of the cinnamon buns, but because I routinely say completely illogical things like this.

“IF YOU CAN’T BEHAVE AFTER A CINNAMON BUN,” I heard myself say, “THEN YOU WILL NEVER, EVER, EVER HAVE ANOTHER CINNAMON BUN AGAIN, AS LONG AS YOU LIVE.”

…“Why?” she asked, suddenly worried.

“Because you can’t handle them,” I said. …

“Because a cinnamon bun has too much SUGAR and when you have too much SUGAR, you stop behaving, and THEN you start twirling, and THEN you start falling in front of SPEEDING CARS, and then you get RUN OVER, and they KILL YOU and you’re DEAD. You will DIE if you have another cinnamon bun, and as a family, we can’t afford that. No more cinnamon buns, EVER. Do you understand me?”

Maybe this is why I am not allowed to have cinnamon buns.