Thank you, kind shopkeeper, for not verbalizing your judgments with me. You, me, and the security footage can all attest that I’m not the “catch”, the “philanthropist”, or the “mature adult” my online dating profile makes me out to be. Like my diary, you are sweet to hold your tongue when it comes to my, well, less than stellar habits involving your marketplace.
You’ve supported me unconditionally and have been there at my highest highs, like when I found that loose Sour Patch Kid on the floor and gobbled the little tasty morsel right up. And you’ve been there at my lowest lows, like right after I ate said Sour Patch Kid off the floor and I still had part of a spider web in my mustache which led to me being mocked by a pack of loose children.
You’ve been nothing but kind to me and even helped me with my scratch-off ticket addiction. By helped, of course, I mean that you’ve helped keep this delightful dependence going; always offering them and reassuring me that the one that I didn’t buy would be the winner. You’ve let me take countless dollars out of the Humane Society donation jar in exchange for IOU’s to keep my compulsion afloat. Plus, you never call me out on the blatant lie I tell every time when I say that I’m going to give half my winnings to the Humane Society. Now that’s truly the mark of an excellent 7-11 clerk.
Now, your customer service track record was always flawless, but you’ve taken your lack of oral outrage to the next level when it comes to my behavior with the grill items. It’s like clockwork; every time I come in, I insist I need a closer inspection of the hot dogs and the other pre-diarrhea, culinary travesties that twirl themselves for hours atop those shiny rollers. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, well, I had a gift card. Fool me the eleventh time, well, sorry, body, I knew exactly what I was getting into, but I had a punch card that gave me my eleventh hot dog for free.
After the eleventh such meat-train passed through my mouth tunnel, I was born again over the course of a sleepless night in which I spent nine hours of labor on the commode. Now, through my humanistic compulsion, I find it necessary to thoroughly inspect all grill items whenever I come into the store. Hopefully, through my informal research, we can all get to the bottom of what really went down on September 11th (said sleepless, but stink filled, night coincidentally occurred this past September 11th).
Needless to say, I’m glad you haven’t impeded my research or drew attention to my eccentric and my less than sanitary habits involving the hot dogs and taquitos.
Your resume is stellar already. You are truly a living saint in a red vest and nametag. Why, it was just last Friday, near the beginning of your shift I’m guessing, and I came in and bought one Digiorno frozen pizza, a pack of cigarettes, and one large bag of Twizzlers. Later in your shift, I would return yet again and make the exact same purchase. Disgusting, yes, yet you didn’t lash our linguistically toward me at any point. I felt safe. I felt I was in a judgment-free zone. You may have thought said judgments, you may have tweeted them, you may have even cried about my life to your therapist later in the week, but you held your tongue while I was there and that’s what counts
Now, to the untrained eye, it looks just like two isolated incidents. However, I think most can tell my the necessity of the second trip, just a few short hours after the first, that this was more indicative of a lethargically depressive day during which I underestimated how much damage I wanted to do to my body over reruns of Maury rather than some pizza-cigarette-licorice-fiesta day that I was hosting in which I underestimated what supplies I’d need for my guests.
If the two trips didn’t give it away, I’m sure my lack of eye contact and apathetically broken posture denoted the nature of said visits. Still, you were nothing but delightful to me and, for that, I tip my hat to you.
You truly are the yin to my yang.
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