No, I mean, I really, really, hate fucking grocery shopping.

Allow me to explain in both unnecessary detail and in vague, hand-waving ways.

First, I hate crowds. I hate being around people who can see me, or touch me or, Goddess help my anxiety, talk to me. I look at the ground and sometimes grab things vaguely off the shelves that look edible. Granted, this has led to me both discovering a delightful curry and having not one, but two bottles of avocado oil in my pantry.

Secondly, this is the Future. I should be able to put on some goggles and shit and put things into a shopping cart and it shows up, already separated and put away, through a pneumatic tube in the floor. If a man can design and sell a motherfucking recreational flamethrower, I should be able to virtually shop and pay for my damn pork chops and Greek Salad.

Get the fuck with it Wegmans.

Thirdly, who in the name of the Goddess herself wants to touch things that other people have touched a thousand times? Don’t like that watermelon? Pick this one up and do everything except fucking impregnate the thing to see if it is ripe enough. Want to taste that delicious kalamata olive? Go ahead and reach your human germ factory hand as deep into the liquid miasma that is the olive bar as deep as you want pal.

Lastly, oh the fuck lastly.

Self. Fucking. Checkout.

You’ve tried this Lovecraftian Clusterfuck. You have swiped the fucking thing over the fucking scanned thirty fucking times and, AND, been spoken down to by the goddamn machine over and over, telling you to take the fucking thing out of the fucking bag it just told you to fucking put it in.


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