The days are beginning to wain away, no more Shaw’s for months should be refreshing. There’s nothing more nauseating than having your mother knocking down your door at 9:30 in the morning to tell you that your boss has called and left a message on the answering machine asking if you could work. It’d be alright if she hadn’t already decided that I would be available, and tells me that I should go in. So, frustrated and utterly crestfallen I showered and attempted to resist the urge to throw the shampoo bottle through the window. Personally, I love grocery shopping. I throw in my ear buds, put my tunes on full blast [Lately, it’s been Crime In Stereo on a pretty consistent basis.], and lean my entire upper body into the carriage [Welcome to New England, it’s not a shopping cart.] and roam the store at a leisurely pace. It’s even better when you find good deals, don’t have to roam back through the store to find something random because you’re a horrendous grocery shopper, or when you get to the register and it’s cheaper than the total you had come up with in your head. Nevertheless, I despise working at a grocery store. I’m at about 5 years of being with Shaw’s, and I’ve outgrown my job. You can be the smartest person in the checkout and you’re still an idiot. Customers look at you like you have some mental handicap because you’re bagging groceries, and heaven forbid you’re on register and you fumble something up. Fumbling something up…now that doesn’t take much effort. The sheer monotony of your job can make anyone’s brain turn to a jello like substance. So, I PLU-ed [Not the technical term, but work with me here.] your Anjou pears as Bosc, may the produce gods strike me dead. No seriously, please? I’ll stand real still, perfect target.
There's a love coming to us all. 
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