I hate seeing my own breath.

I hate not wanting to go to the gym, even though I’ve been doing a lot better about going on a regular basis.

I hate my nose hairs freezing on the way to the mailbox.

I hate actually having to wear a coat … in Florida.

I hate the weather reports from Michigan and New York actually being comparable to ours.

I hate the number 29 … at least when it’s used as a temperature.

I hate not having any energy and wanting to just lay around all day, despite having a brazillion things to do.

I hate feeling like a horrible, horrible cold is right around the corner.

I really, really hate the cold.

It was supposed to be just another grocery run,
like so many you’ve heard before.
But obviously things turned out otherwise,
or else you wouldn’t be reading about them here today…now would you?

I certainly don’t drive a big car,
but it gets me from A to B.
The A in this scenario being my apartment, and the B representing the grocery store…
…for those of you who need to diagram these things out.

So there I am on the freeway,
minding my own business.
Jamming out to an old Britney Spears CD…
…up yours – who are you to judge my taste of music?!

Although that wasn’t the actual title of the album, wouldn’t you just run out to buy a copy of that one?

Towering in the lane next to me,
you evidently don’t even know I’m there.
As proven by the fact that despite my honking and yelling,
you’ve tried to swerve into my existence three times in the last five minutes.

But who am I to judge, really?
You do have a lot on your mind,
what with driving the kids from dance class to soccer practice,
all the while establishing your own evening plans with Pedro the Pool Boy on your cell phone.

And maybe there are some groceries in your own future as well,
because lord knows you could fit enough of them in that monstrosity!
Just never you mind that it only gets three miles to the gallon…
Hey – you’re a Mom, not a conservationist!

And they say that video games don’t teach us anything…

With my exit coming up only 1 ½ miles away,
I finally can feel the relief of knowing that my life just got a bit safer.
I’d wave as we part our ways,
but Pedro’s feeling extra frisky and I’d hate to keep him waiting.

But never fear as I roll up on the traffic light,
and the shadow looms once again.
For it seems that your sister is out of food as well,
and she’s come prepared to bring back for ten.

This “poem” is dedicated to all of the crazy soccer Moms who insist on driving vehicles much too large for their daily activities, despite the fact that the minivan was developed expressly for this purpose alone. I urge you to reconsider your choice of transportation because frankly, you’re going to fucking kill someone! Unless you’re actually going on an expedition, it’s time for a different vehicle…

Day in, day out – my life goes by in 40-hour increments…
…except when I’m a few minutes late and you dock me fifteen.
Then they’re more like 39.75-hour increments,
but repetitious all the same.

Logging complaints in eight-hour stretches,
I realize that too much efficiency and I’ll be out of a job.
So we strive to make things better, but not too much better,
even though unemployment doesn’t seem so bad from behind this headset.

You’re my boss, and he’s my boss, and I think that that lady over there is my boss, too.
Not to worry – she’ll be sure to let me know here in a few minutes anyways.
Just as soon as my latest productivity report is finished,
I will be reminded about what it felt like to be in kindergarten.

But financially obligated, I return each day,
to a group that logs my every waking move.
No Internet sites will go unturned, no bathroom breaks undocumented…
…are we going to have to have another meeting about this?

Do as I say, not as I do,
and please try not to wrinkle my dry-cleaning this time!
It isn’t considered slavery when you’re being paid,
but I’m sure there’s a term for what we’re put through here.

Incorporated Hell.

And yet today I came to work with a twinkle in my eye,
much similar to the twinkle you get as you escort another of my co-workers out the door.
For today is judgment day, minus all of the explosions and special effects…
…maybe.

I could bludgeon you with this stapler,
once for every time you told me to talk less and work more.
But over the years I’ve come to like this stapler,
and its much too good for the likes of you.

I could burn down the building,
just like in the movies, and get off scot-free and everything.
Yet there’s only a handful of people here that I’d like to punish,
and simply wouldn’t be fair to the rest.

So what to do, what to do?
You don’t like me, and I certainly don’t like you.
But I’ll stay here another day, and practice what you preach…
…and keep egging the interns on to spit in your coffee – anything to break you.

Of course, if this plan doesn’t see results soon,
I may have to reconsider the stapler.

It was an evening unlike any other,
the stars twinkling behind a moonlit sky
with a beautiful iridescence that might’ve mattered
had the roof been ripped off by a hurricane or something.

I was out of celery, and I really like celery.
So I came to your store
…ok, not technically your store, but you were working there at the time…
and it seemed only logical that everything would work out for the best.

Sometimes logic doesn’t always apply when you’re dealing with jerks.

As often it seems,
I needed a few other items as well…
orange juice
condoms
and some of those little cocktail weenies that are endorsed by Al from Home Improvement.

Aren’t those just delicious?!

I approached the checkout line, my arms full of much more than the celery that I originally came for.
I always forget to grab one of those little baskets, and this is my punishment.

Your gaze is like that of an intoxicated water buffalo,
almost as if you spent your last break smoking cheap grass out behind the dumpster.
And I get the feeling that your lack of enthusiasm about my purchases at this store
might be lessened considerably if you were actually conscious to witness the act.
I can almost taste the marijuana from where I’m standing.

But I say nothing as you fumble with each item to find the barcode, forgetting that I’m going to want to actually eat this stuff later.
I say nothing as you carry on with the cashier in the next lane about “where you’ll be partying when you get out of this hell hole in a couple of hours.”
And I say nothing as you proceed to bag each of my four, relatively small items in individual bags.

My total stutters from your lips as if you’re a baby just trying to speak for the first time…
Is your job really this difficult???
As I hand you a wad of bills from my wallet, your glare implies that I might as well have given you a handful of pennies…or perhaps even pebbles from the parking lot.
Time lapses and I swear I see my life flash before my eyes as you calculate the $2.23 change that I have coming.

You hand me $1.67, with a look that screams the war-cry of a rebelious youth,
but this time I’m not going to let it slide.

Fucking kids are gonna have to learn sometime…

I take my receipt and proceed to the nearest manager,
explaining that I’m still fifty-six cents short and that one of his cashiers is high as a kite.
We return to your lair and the tall, pasty general, power-tie and all, tells you to finish giving me my change.
I can feel the “fuck-you” in your eyes, as I grin from ear to ear and place the coins in my pocket.

Turning to leave, I know that you won’t be far behind me.
I might feel bad about costing you your job, but you didn’t really even like it anyways.
And besides, I am the customer…and the customer is always right.

As I leave your store, I look up to see that the sky truly does look beautiful tonight.
I wonder if you will notice this when you pass through these same doors.

Oh well – tonight will be a great tonight for some celery!