Up Your Nose with a Rubber Hose

Oh work, how I love thee so--she says in bitter sarcasm laced with arsenic.

I had a chance, today, to sort out the holds to be sent back to their departments. I got a perverse pleasure from this act. This all goes back to when my shoes were shoved away unrelentingly and I, by pure chance, found them once again on the sales rack before they were sold to someone who really didn't deserve them as much as I.

With each rip of trashbag plastic holding a gluttonous bag of neglected clothing I got all the more furious at whoever removed my shoe's protrayal to me when I saw dates as early as my own shoved to the back of the hold shelf having lingered much more than the three standard layaway days. My face grew bitter in disdain for these people I only knew by first initials and last names.

Holds shouldn't even exist in stores! If one doesn't have the money right then to buy something that they believe they need, why should they save money for that same something down the road? (i'mahipocrit) If it wasn't important enough to have right that moment, why should one plan to buy it in the future? (i'mabighipocrit) It's all this material wealth, which really doesn't exist at all. People put on hold this bounty of clothing and pillows and stinky awful rugs and never come back for them. As if by putting them on hold they're buying them temporarily, because at least they tried to be hip and chic and hott.

"Oh, this shirt is cute."
"Oh! I think I put that on hold. I forgot all about it. But isn't it?"

As if their forgetfulness allows them the title of much too high up in their thinking to care for such things while they still remain tasteful and cool.

I opened a bag in fury and smelt the most disdainful odor I think I have ever smelt. It smelled of pooh covered in chocolate and burnt hair. It was a set of forgotten rugs. And this made me mad. How dare those people forget their stinky rugs. My Cod! If you're going to set aside a set of stinky rugs for your stinky enjoyment at least have the decency to buy them! Mr. Hip. Mrs. Cool. Ms. Sheek. C'mon, I know you want them.

Then again, I'm a hipocrit. Then again, isn't everyone who wishes to grow past their current situation, at some point, a hipocrit to their own rants?

"Excuse me! Miss! Your sign says bras that are 14 dollars are 6.50. I dare you to find a 14 dollar bra in there."
It's not my sign. But I look. No. There isn't one. The sign is completely wrong.
"I'm sorry, sometimes all the prices on the sign aren't in the bra set."
"Maybe the set is wrong. This place is a mess!"
I meant to tidy up, but you didn't call ahead. It doesn't always look like this, I swear. You are a stupid stupid woman. I'm sorry. You're not stupid.
(same woman) "Ma'am! I'm probably the customer from hell..."
Yes, you are.
"...But how do you figure this 60% off?"
I reread the sign.
"You take 33% off the yellow-ticket price."
"Oh, how much is 33% off of 18 dollars?"
Up your butt with a rubber nut.
"I'm not very good with math. But there's a price check--"
"Oh yes, we went there and it said it was 12 something."
Her mother figures it out.
"I think that's right."
"Oh. Okay. Sorry."
I'm very tempted to take back my 'you're not stupid' headvoice comment.

And, is it petty that I want to buy myself a yellow bra so my boobs will look like two large lemons? Just so I can say, "You can squeeze them in your sweet iced tea if you want."

currently: salty

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