I really do not enjoy shopping. I want to grab the things that I need and get out of the store. I don't want to browse, chatter or otherwise waste any more time than is necessary in the store.
This is clearly not a secret about me, because for years, legions of clueless old ladies are dispatched to the store to coincide with my shopping trips. They're positioned at key locations that I'm likely to visit. Once in position, they stand, oblivious to the entire world around them for inordinate amounts of time.
They ponder the font on the label of the potato chip bag; they look for their brand of canned corn when I swear all of the corn is grown on the same farm; they park their carts and study each and every single molecule that forms the sheet of paper that their grocery list is written upon -- all in front of the exact thing I need. Each and every single time.
I've tried everything to budge them: feigning tuberculosis, executing them in medieval fashion with my glare, wedging myself between them and my desperately needed product in the rudest way imaginable to get what I need. It doesn't discourage them, they multiply and spread out.
I promise that you can live out your days in front of the spaghetti sauce, just please move for a moment so I grab a jar and get out of this horrid place.
My brain is a curious thing. It bounces from place to place, from the exceedingly strange to the terribly mundane. Every once in awhile, something will pop into my head that is just completely out of nowhere. Totally random.