I don’t know what you’re talking about. This all seems totally rational.

Dear Local Supermarket,

I realize you had no way of knowing I was coming to you in a blind, Tasmanian-devil-grade cyclonic haze of hormones and exhaustion. 

However… When a woman approaches you wanting only ice cream and cheese, that is a very urgent list. Her needs must be met, or the villagers shall perish. 

But you did not have the ice cream I needed. 

“Chocolate peanut butter,” you say? Blow me. I need chocolate, peanut butter, salted caramel, brownie bits, and some swirly shit. I don’t even care what the swirly shit IS, I just need it to fucking SWIRL. 

You did not provide me swirly shit, and for that, you are dead to me. You hear me? Dead. You are an ex-parrot. 
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go put salt on leftover macaroni salad from yesterday’s barbecue and call it dinner.

No love whatsoever and also go fuck yourself, 


My dowry would be cheese and cookie dough.

I’m not sure what it says about me as a woman that I’m more impressed by “He went to the grocery store!” than I am by “He went to Jared!”

Don’t judge. My needs are simple.

Can you also manage my orgasm?

I don’t know what it is about me and managers of grocery stores, but I’m gonna sleep with another one.

I think it’s the fact that, after sex with a grocery manager, there’s a pretty good chance there’ll be food in the house.

Don’t judge — my needs are very simple. In the words of Chris Rock: “Feed me, fuck me, shut the fuck up.”

Meeting people organically/orgasmically

A friend and I discuss the possibility of her meeting her new Person at Whole Foods.

“Damn, I gotta move back to the suburbs. I’m not meeting my soulmate at the Shoprite in the ‘hood. I can’t even find frozen mango there, let alone someone worth sleeping with.

“Personally, for my meet-cute, I’m biding my time until the next wedding I go to. I have some friends who are dating — maybe they’ll work out and I can go to their wedding in a couple years and find love with the guy I let finger me in a country club’s coatroom. (What do you mean, ‘That’s not love?’ Ah, shit!)”