Mom: I'm going to the store, going to run some errands, anyone need anything?
Me: zomg, kenicomewhichu?
I like going to the store. I like going to Wal-Mart because they feed my obsessions with their cheap nail varnish and massive bins of cheap DVDs. Today I was sifting through a bin that was overflowing, going systematically through each heap, DVDs were falling everywhere, people were staring, it was great. And Mom comes over and asks what I am searching so fervently for. "Dad said he saw Stand By Me in here a few weeks ago, but I've already been through most of the bin and no cigar." And Mom grabs the first DVD she sees off the side of the pile, "Oh, this has River Phoenix in it?" It was a severely deflating moment, but at least I got the DVD.
When we walked in the store, the greeter said to the lady in front of us, "Welcome to Wal-Mart" and she kept walking without even looking at him. A miniscule part inside of me died. Maybe it's because I'm reading 1984 and everything seems farce to me now, but the manufactured feeling of the store killed me. All the bright colors and uniform labels and new merchandise, a theoretically a place that makes me feel happy, but all the people were frowning and dirty. And next to them everything in the store felt fake. Smiling felt fake. The overpriced crap they were selling was supposedly a testament to the success of capitalism. The people buying the stuff looked content enough to be wasting their money. The cake is a lie.
After Wal-Mart we skipped on over to the supermarket. I think the second I am spending my own paycheck food shopping I am going to go crazy. It's insane, all the good food waiting to happen, confined to one building - in a small, very removed sort of way it reminds me of heaven. The asian pears, the pure blood orange juice, the special cheese with cranberries in it (sorry Jake, I don't remember what it's called, but it smelled amazing), the specialty bagels, the foreign vegetables, the fresh ground coffee aisle . . . the best was the all-natural ice cream section, though. Food is almost as interesting as literature. I am a hopeless food romantic. Maybe it's just successful marketing, that I can even begin to feel happy about all the food options I have when other people have nothing to eat at all, or maybe it's just savoring one's blessings.
While we were in the deli section, we crossed paths with this guy who seemed sane enough, but was talking incessantly to no one in particular about the music playing over the loudspeakers. And we proceeded to run into this man about forty times in the course of our time in the store. He was saying things like, "Why don't they play real music anymore? This sounds like rap. They should play some real women singing, not these snot-nosed brats. Gawsh, won't they stop whining?" He was also laughing a lot. Everyone just kind of ignored him or gave him weird looks, or laughed nervously until they realized he wasn't talking to them. He was really interesting, and I feel like I was supposed to have learned some important lesson from being around him for an hour and a half, but I didn't.
That's all. I guess I'm ready to start noveling. Too tired.