2002-12-06

Hi everyone. Did you miss me?

Okay, so, I did that Nanowrimo thing last month, and it pretty much killed me. But I didn't so much write a 50,000-word novel as a 50,000-word journal entry. Which is better than nothing, right? You guys would love to see my 50,000-word journal entry, right? Yeah, well, be careful what you wish for. I think I just may post bits and pieces of it here, just to see if anyone still cares about this damn site.

For now, here is the first 1,258 words I wrote on Nov. 1. It is completely unedited. It also is completely about what happened to me that fine fine morning on the way to work.

Oh no. Did I spoil the surprise?

Anyway, here it is.

Enjoy.

Don’t go to a Duane Reade drugstore if you’re in a hurry. Just don’t fuckin’ do it. Because if you go to a Duane Reade drugstore when you’re in a hurry, you will get really pissed off. Things will happen. Things like, when you’re in a hurry, and you’re on your way to work, and you’re feelin’ kinda sick, so you stop off at Duane Reade to get a little portable container of Tropicana orange juice because that is the only brand you like, and you never drink orange juice unless you’re sick, so you don’t have it in the house, so on your way to work, you think you’ll stop at a bodega and get some delicious, nutritious orange juice, but then you pass the cheapie grocery store on ninth avenue, the one that probably has rats and roaches, but really good deals on oatmeal and eggs, and you see that it is selling 64 ounce cartons of Tropicana orange juice (all varieties!) at two for $4, which is a steal, a veritable STEAL, let me tell you, and you think about popping in there and hoping you can just get one for $2, which you probably can, but you always wonder if, when there is a sale that says “two for four dollars,” if you have buy two items to get the deal. Like, maybe, if you only buy one, it’s $3.50. This is something you’re always afraid of. But you never ask, because it makes you look cheap and dumb, and who the hell needs help looking cheap and dumb? So, anyway, you are considering buying, hopefully, just one 64-ounce carton of orange juice for a mere two dollars, because you know that the small portable container of, say, twelve ounces, will be only marginally less expensive. But then you’d have 64 goddamn ounces of orange juice that you’d have to carry to work. And find room for in the godforsaken communal refrigerator – and there is never any room in that refrigerator, because Barbara motherfuckin’ Millman, otherwise known as Crazy Crazy Crazy Bitch, keeps about thirty brown paper bags containing god knows what in the fridge at any given time. All adorned with laser-printed labels with her crazy crazy crazy bitch name on them.

Point being, you don’t want to cart around 64 ounces of orange juice and keep it at work, even though it might be economically sound, because a) it will be a cumbersome burden, b) there will be no room in the fridge because of that cunt Barbara Millman, c) your insipid co-workers will probably drink the majority of the juice, and d) who the hell knows if you’ll want to drink that much, anyway? You just want a shot now ‘cause you’re sick.

So, you don’t go into the cheapie market, and you don’t stop at a bodega, either, because, even though you know you should patronize the small, the local, the moms and the pops, you are really just cheap and dumb (as evidenced earlier), and you think that the nice discount drugstore will sell you the orange juice at a lower rate than the, let’s be honest, now, RIPOFF bodega. So you don’t go to the bodega, you go to the proestablishmentarianism Duane Reade, at 9:00 a.m., because you are late for work, because it is Friday and you stayed late on Thursday so you can bet your ass you’re going in late, and if anyone has anything to say about it, well, they can say it to your ass. Anyway, in you go to the Duane Reade, and at first you are daunted because there is a long line at the register (the one register that is open, of the six that exist), and you aren’t even sure if they sell orange juice here. Nor do you want to spend an exorbitant amount of time finding out. Where is the grocery section? WHERE IS THE GODDAMN GROCERY SECTION?! You find the grocery section, you find the beverage receptacles, you find the orange juice. After a short discussion with yourself, you choose no pulp, with calcium. You hate pulp, you are sick, and you are at risk of being afflicted with osteoporosis at some point in your life, so that seems like the best choice to make. There are no prices on the cartons, or anywhere that you can see, and this disturbs you a bit, as you want to make sure it’s not a stupid price, like, say, $1.59, because, in your version of what’s right in the world, you think a dollar twenty-five is the appropriate price.

You mosey on up to the register, and happily note that another line has opened, and neither of them are oppressively long. You choose what you think is the right line to choose, and wait. This is taking far too long. The bodega would have been a far better place to have gone. Supporting the locals, and not having to deal with fuckin’ lines. But it is too late. You are in for the long haul. You have the orange juice in your mitten-clad hand, and you are waiting in line. Waiting for the woman, who looks to be just about done with her transaction to – damn it. “Do you have seventeen cents? If you have seventeen cents, I can give you a twenty back.” The woman does not know if she has seventeen cents. The woman is trying to figure out if she has seventeen cents. There is much scrounging around in the bottom of her purse. There is much digging deep into the depths of her pockets. There is much waiting behind this woman as, oh, well, gee, y’know what? She does not have seventeen cents. Oh, the horror. THE HORROR. So, now that the transaction has lasted a good two minutes longer than it should have, and the other line is progressing merrily away, you are really annoyed with this whole Duane Reade thing. Not like you’re not partially responsible, anyway. Not like you couldn’t have gone to a bodega and probably have been at work by now. Or even have gotten a giant 64-ounce carton of OJ for two measly dollars at the dirty place. But no, you had to go to the clean, sparkly, familiar red and white circle of hell. Sure you did. And now that you are at the register, the woman behind the counter is paying you no mind. She is counting some money. Counting it very, very slowly. Several singles, a few fives, who knows? She is turning them this way and that, so that all the bills have the heads pointing the same direction. Um, hello? Waiting, here. You really are about to reach across the counter and maybe shove her a little. Shove her a lot. But she finally finishes the counting, and scans your purchase. A dollar fifty-nine. Highway robbery. You are about 80 percent certain the bodega sells it cheaper. Oh, humanity! This is such a load of bullshit. You give her two dollars, ready to kill if she asks you if you have fifty-nine cents, because then she could give you one of your dollars back, and, y’know, god forbid she have to do math in her head, which she wouldn’t even have to do, because the freakin’ cash register would do the math for her. Or you would. Or the person behind you, who is also now ready to kill.

Oh my god. Just don’t go to the Duane Reade when you’re in a hurry.

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