Everything Is Wal*Mart’s Fault

Well hey there!

One day I’m actually going to have something to say instead of updates on my well being, which I know you’re all on the edge of your seats about at all times. I mean, who wouldn’t be? I’m obviously of primo importance. It won’t be today though. Sorry.

My stupid cold, which I thought had disintegrated more than a week ago, decided to just relocate to my chest, so now as well as sniffling and sounding like I am living in a tunnel, I now appear to have coughed up a lung. I can feel it rattling around in there, looser than Lindsay Lohan’s knicker elastic. Each rasping rumble sounds like an evil quake surging forth from the core of the Earth.

And my rib cage feels like Jenna Jameson after she’s been pounded by Tito Ortiz. Take that in whichever manner you like, they all work. Holy shit, this is the cold that never dies.

The best part of it is that people look at you in horror in public, like you’re carrying that plague that causes humans to turn into zombies, in movies. They gather their whiny offspring and herd them away from the danger zone, worried eyes never leaving your red, spluttering face, as though tracking a wild animal, lest you suddenly spring up and eat the heads off of their babies. There’s really no need, people. For a start, WalMart has a McDonald’s. I always choose tasty, salty fries over baby heads, when presented with the choice.

Well except that one time. But really, that was the baby’s fault for looking so delicious and meaty.

At least for once I could stand proudly in line at the cashier and know I, with my lung rumbling, red nose and big, wet sneezes that shook the roof, was every bit as annoying as that shrieking kid behind me who didn’t want to get out of the cart.

Hey lady, why are you whipping out a face mask? Do you not savour breathing in my asbestos-ridden cough breath?

I consider my annoyance a small but satisfying victory. That and the fact WalMart has a pitiful cheese selection so I am forced to buy the best cheese there is, Armstrong – in a big, fuck off block of strong cheddar. It’s that or that plastic shit toddlers eat or that they put on movie nachos.

It’s also WalMart’s fault that after two fringeless years, I now have bangs again. I happened to pass a mirror as I was cart-bashing random, hyperactive toddlers out of the way, in my haste to get from the skincare aisle to the chocolate department (don’t stand in the way of a chocolate run, brats, especially by a lady fueled by evil and PMS!) and thought “Fuck me, it’s that wookie dude from ‘Star Wars’!” then realized, with defeated resignation that no. That is most definitely ME. So I went home and had a hot date with some scissors.

It’s all better now. Nothing to see here.