I think that after spending some time at the 8th Avenue Kroger this afternoon, I have come to the conclusion that people are generally fucked-up-looking. I’m not saying ugly, but I am saying oddly mismatched in the parts department and shoved into interestingly-shaped clothing. At least, these are the outcomes I found at the 8th Avenue Kroger.
Why were you at the 8th Avenue Kroger?
Because I was pooping there.
Why were you pooping at the 8th Avenue Kroger?
I had the Black Bean salad from the Carribean place for lunch. I love the black bean salad, but it does have its cleansing properties. I decided to not drop this particular deuce at the office, which would mean essentially sitting right next to my coworkers and letting it go. The walls are thin, people. I’ve done it several times before*, I know everyone else is tired of pretending they didn’t hear the party when I slink out of the bathroom, and I just don’t need the shame on my birthday.
That’s right, it’s my birthday. I am thirty.
Get your filthy hands offa me
And I need a manicure. And I’m not one of those people who says things like “I need a manicure, my polish is chipped.” I’m saying I need a manicure because my hands look like the hands of a fourteen-year-old boy who bites his nails and chews on his cuticles and maybe works on cars all day.
* I don’t have a gallbladder, okay? It was removed when I was nineteen, thanks to some gigantoid stones that made me think I was having a for-real heart attack about four times a week. And to spare you my lecture about bile storage and fatty foods/ proteins and ease of digestion, I’ll just let you know that things are just different when you part with your gallbladder. Just as members of the mafia make sure they can always see the door from their table at the restaurant, I will always know where to find the nearest bathroom, its level of cleanliness, and privacy level on a scale of 1-10. It may seem as though I talk a lot about pooping. I do, because I spend a lot of my time doing it.