It's a sunny Friday. I'm cruising around town during my lunch hour running various errands, top down, sunglasses on, enjoying the gorgeous autumn and feeling generally good. Not even the reflection of my man boobs in the window of the local grocery store can faze me as I head inside to grab some cookies.
Strawberry-filled oatmeal. Mmmm. Yeah, that'll work.
So I'm feeling good. The cashier, an attractive young blonde, is chatting happily with the guy in front of me, and then it's my turn. I step forward, prepared to be utterly friendly and charming in keeping with my mood.
She doesn't say a word to me. No eye contact. No "Did you find everything okay?" or "Will that be all for you?" She mutters the total, but it's more of an indirect observation than a message specifically intended for me. I pay with my debit card.
Some totally skanky greaseballs come up behind me in line. She smiles at them and starts chatting, not even looking at me while she hands me my receipt. I wouldn't even say she handed it TO me; rather, she just sorta held it out in my general vicinity.
Bitch! I mean seriously, what the fuck? What did I do to this person? I scan back through the hazy memories of decadence past, but she doesn't look familiar. Nope, she's not on "The List." A complete stranger.
So why? Why, why, why, why? Why did she choose to deprive me of even the most basic level of customer service? Is it....
No, it couldn't be.
Is it my man boobs? Could it be?
I'm eating the last cookie as I type this. Yeah, I ate the whole package. Oatmeal pretty much rules. God, what a fat fuck I am.
