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,