In the Blue Haze of Commercialism (I shop there, it’s true, I just refuse to give them the satisfaction of another brand-recognition link), I am useless. Specifically, when I wear house-shoes. I mean, it’s the perfect place to wear them, for a number of reasons. Comfort, stereotype, and most of all, the floors. I slip around, run, skip, do fancy pirouettes in the pasta aisle, and generally become that guy. That guy who doesn’t notice a fuck about the busy, harangued and possibly-feeling-guilty-for-shopping-there pedestrians who just want to get their Digiorno and canned lemonade and gtfo. I’m sorry, those people! I have slidey shoes on! At least I am not that young lady wearing a karate uniform while driving a scooter.
yeah, some things don’t change.
Drink Gabbiano Chianti. Drink it when you want to caricature yourself in the Triscuit aisle.
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