I am in a grocery store. There are groceries all around me, consuming me. All of them are for sale, except for possibly the displays. But wait, why would they display something that’s not for sale? No, anything within eyesight in the grocery store is for sale. A cart-filled cart puts the pusher out a job. Focus.

31 miniature tomatoes in a cute basket. Sold. I don’t even eat miniature tomatoes. Great marketing. I’ve always wanted to try artichoke. Now that I know I can pre-price all my produce, I still don’t. Stop looking at me, lobster. You too, Butcher #3. Actually, it’s quite alright. Yes, two pounds of it, please. What? Oh, I said yes, two pounds of it. Yes, I did say please. Well, the first time. No, I didn’t say it the second time. Fine, please.

A six-pack of Bud Lite, for watering my lawn.

Hello, aisle 14. Hello, aisle 15. In 10 feet, sharp right turn onto aisle 16. Oh, excuse me, Ma’am. Oh no, I meant that politely. As in more of a “pardon me” sense, rather than a “watch it” sense. Is that canned tuna? Perhaps I did mean it in a “watch it” sense.

People are just pasta. We all taste the same. Spaghetti is the same as Linguine. Farfalle is still slightly better than gnocchi. Fiori is trying too hard. We get it, Fiori. I’m allowed to drive on the left side inside here, inside this lawless, godless grocery store. No, you move. Fine.

An off-duty security guard offers the same resistance as an on-duty security guard. My armpits smell. I fit in. Robot tellers let me interact with less people. Damn it, the beer. Here is my ID. Yes, I used to have long hair. ha ha. Yup. Thanks. I probably should have pre-priced my produce. I feel gross for using the word ‘produce’ as a noun. Do I know that person?

I push my cart to my faraway car so that pushers can keep getting paid to push. Working at work. Stop raining on my groceries, please. I am, the most pedestrian hunter-gatherer. Modern day caveman. Wielding a receipt.