Um...really? Like, I'm standing in this Target line, my shit laid out on the counter belt, ready to check out- and you, YOU are in front of me?
Seriously, half of your items don't have tickets? Is that even physically possible? And you are talking to the cashier (Shawn, the nameplate reads), the cashier that is trying to find the prices on his computer, and you are distracting him with stories of your kid's swim team tryouts? Really?
Okay, now, he rang everything up and wait- oh- you, you just decided you didn't want that? The anti-bacterial wipes- those, those you don't need anymore? So now he needs to credit those out of your item list- oh, yes, you are leaning over the counter, practically pressing your face into the computer screen, double-checking the prices? And then, oh my god, you pull out a checkbook? Really?
You sure are writing really slowly, aren't you? And still chatting. Cole, your son, placed first in WHAT division? Because, please, Shawn and I are DYING to know. And take your time recording your Target purchase in your checkbook. Take your time.
Yes, you DO need help out, with all the bags of kitty litter, plastic organizers, and enough apple-spice scented candles to fill a dumpster. Surely, they didn't expect you, you, in the 1994 haircut and pleated khaki pants to actually load all this shit in the back of your Ford Explorer, did they? They certainly did not.
And me? Me who just stood in line fifteen minutes waiting to purchase my tampons and mint gum? Me, who is irritated and annoyed beyond belief that you, YOU, would be the one that is in front of me? That there are 35 checkout counters and I picked this line?
Quarter Life Whatever
3 years ago