Living, Laughter, and Love at the Lucky's Market
I’m pushing along my freshly sanitized cart, as you do. Creeping up and down the aisles with my mask and white knuckles. Maybe I’ll try some new goddamned protein-rich, probiotic grain bullshit snack this week. Something with kale and chia seeds and goat’s cum or whatever the fuck else they pack into every overpriced bite. Euclid font with pastel colors on the packaging, you know the type. Appeals to millennial suckers like me. Not much else to gain stimulus from these days except the promise of a hEaLtHy NeW sNaCk to shove in my mouth and out my ass later. Reminds me of high school when our middle-aged neighbor confessed to my mother she used to sneak away from her home and walk around the grocery store for fun since her life was so miserable and had nothing else in it. She didn’t buy anything. Just strolled about leisurely. This woman took care of her high-school-aged son, witnessed her husband drink away his evenings, and waited for that precious moment she could sneak away midday to creep up and down the aisles for fun. Again, not the trip she takes as a domestic chore. A separate, secret one she does just for the thrill of it. I now feel her in my bones.
I walk down an aisle adorned with oils and dressings. I gaze upon an array of balsamic vinegars and it occurs to me that I really might not live as long as I hope to. Even two years from now seems impossible. How could I even begin to prepare for the next iteration of disaster capitalism that awaits? How much worse can the government of these United States fuck you and me then?
What if I bought one of these balsamic vinegars and poured it into a fancy glass bottle with a stainless steel pourer affixed to the top and thrust it repeatedly in both my eyes? And I’m just bleeding all over the place, laughing? But why should I bleed, you know? What if I stabbed the Chief of Police with it? Or the Secretary of Defense? Could I? Who cares? Would it even work? How much time would it take? Would it make a difference? Who would it help? Is it sharp enough? I don’t end up buying one. Really gotta know what you’re gonna make with it if you’re gonna invest, you know. There’s other ways to eat a salad.
I think about that god-awful picture I saw online again. Orlando and Katy in those fucking hoodies. Why are you doing this to me, Orlando Jonathan Blanchard Copeland Bloom? Why, god, why? Didn’t you and your girlfriend Katheryn Perry know that everyone in the world would see your matching Fauci Gang hoodies if you posted that picture on social media? Oh god, you did know, didn’t you? And you wanted it. You really wanted us all to see. Pervert. Absolute pervert. How could you do this? How are we not seeing eye to eye here? Why couldn’t you have just done that threesome scene on Easy with Kate Micucci and that other hot lady and nothing else ever again? Why this? Why do you hate me with such fervor? How do you expect me to recover from this? I go to bed furious and wake up even more so with each passing day. Congrats on the newborn baby.
I load up my groceries and drive home, fantasizing about someday feeling the intoxicating touch of another dyke’s hands on my neck in a dimly lit bedroom. I wish there was a dyke next to me right now. One hand on the wheel and the other on their left knee. We’d drive around just ‘cuz, enjoying each other’s company without the need for destination or purpose. Instead, my fanny pack sits on the passenger seat. It holds my Albuterol, hand sanitizer, and wallet.
Groceries put away. I make myself one of three meals I’m real good at cooking. Sweat seeps through my clothes as I eat. No central A/C in this place. I think about marriage in the company of empty chairs. My wedded roommates marvel at the dog in the living room.
It’s night time. Banana shaped and dejected, I scroll through Twitter on my sunken hand-me-down mattress. Liberals are rescusitating that one David Sedaris story from the New Yorker to make a point. You know the one. The chicken and the airplane. Online leftists are jeering.
During his first term, President Barack Obama appointed Timothy Geithner as his Treasury Secretary, Larry Summers as Director of the National Economic Council, and renominated Ben Bernanke as Chair of the Federal Reserve – all the same exact people who, just months prior, played a crucial role in (and benefited from) catalyzing the 2008 global financial crisis under the Bush Administration.
As a nightcap, I look into the matter further. Daisy Dove Bloom is a goddamned Virgo.
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