I did the shopping today, since I’m at home enjoying some employment-free time.
It’s a good thing you can’t really RAGEQUIT supermarkets, because otherwise I’d have been home much earlier.
See, I hate supermarkets, me. And I don’t mean, “I dislike going to the supermarket”, I genuinely hate it. Take the kind of idiocy you see in Auckland driving, multiply it by ten, add hand-pushed carts, and then you get my personal supermarket experience. I can’t go there without some scarce-evolved simian gruntingly, their eyes crossed with the effort, producing one of the following classic supermarket thougts:
– Know what’s cool? Sloowww walking. That’s what’s cool. Myep.
– Right here in the middle of the aisle is the perfect place to stop my cart, look into the middle distance, and just .. think a happy thought.
– I reckon if I stand to one side, or a bit back, from the shelves full of a really popular product (like, say, Milk) then Wolves Will Eat Me. Best if I just stand as much in front of it as I can while I choose which of the hundreds of identical bottles to put in my cart. Because, man, who wants to be Eaten By Wolves? Not me, that’s who. Fuck you, Wolves!
– That big hairy guy keeps crashing his trolley lightly into mine, staring unblinkingly at me, and repeating “Excuse me, Please.” … I wonder what he wants. I guess I will NEVER KNOW. Well, this middle distance won’t stare at itself! Back at it!
There’s a dark core to my hate for supermarkets. There’s layers to it. There’s facets.