I can't find the fucking eggs.
Either I'm just lost in this huge fucking place in the powdered soup aisle, or I just somehow warped into the Enterprise's kitchen, if they have one. Why do I even eat eggs? They're the ovaries of a chicken that was going to turn into another chicken. It's a little bizarre, if you think about it. So that's why I will refuse to think about it and get some damn eggs for my damn godly morning protein. Fuck this.
I don't think I can read anymore. Everything might as well be labeled in Morse Code for all I know. I'm just fucking dizzy. I just want my damn eggs. I just want to go home. I just don't want to deal with another human being in my life at this moment, because that's all I've been dealing with and taking pictures with and answering questions with, which is why I'm wearing sunglasses and a damn beanie and not asking for help for finding eggs. Kill me. Maybe I should have asked Mindy to come with me to help. But did I know I was going to struggle trying to find some damn eggs? No, I actually did not.
Well. If I actually ask her to help me with grocery shopping, I'll never hear the end of it of her cynical jokes. Not even at NASA will she stop, and I bet Martinez will have the direct pleasure of joining in and giving her ideas.
It's an occurring thought, but sometimes I wonder when I grow old, I'm going to end up being a grumpy, sarcastic old man. The possibility is very likely. Although, I think if I had grandkids, I would spoil them rotten (like the damn eggs I can't find. This is absurd!). But hey, that's just me.
I've pushed this damn metal cart around forty-five minutes too long to know that I should just give up on the eggs right now and maybe call Mindy later to go with me. I am through with this bullshit-
I'VE FOUND THEM!
Now, where's the cash register?