Don't Panic.

When I get miserable beyond words, I wander into various clothing stores and buy pink things. Yesterday I was buying shoes. Well, actually I originally went in there to buy new pants. And not because I wanted to, but because the zipper had broken on my work pants. As a result of not wanting to expose my crotch at work, I haven't been tucking in my shirt. I'd noticed my store manager looking at me like he wants to snap my neck as he calmly asks me one more time to please tuck it in.

I'm about to leave there and I don't want to be fired. Prior, I'd always had the half-assed secret desire to be fired, so that I'd be forced to get another job. But right now, I don't want to be fired over a zipper.
So that's why I was in the clothing store.

Anyway, the point of this story is that as I was leaving the store, the cashiere asked me if I would like "a bag to put over my head." I was quiet for a second while I considered whether to beat her mercilessly with the shoes I'd just purchased from her, or to just start weeping openly. It was like being in 7th grade gym class again. I'm suddenly 70 pounds and standing in the blistering sun in my five times too large uniform trying to pretend like the girls behind me aren't blowing spitwads into my fucked up hair.

Back to reality. "It's pouring rain outside," the cashier tells me.

Oh. Right