Preparations A though G were unsuccessful...

I start this next story with a question for you, the reader:

We're friends right?

We have a connection, I think. As much as a connection as we can when I type these words and you read them at your leisure.

So I'm going to tell you:

I went to the grocery store the other night to buy hemorrhoid cream.

Now that that's out in the open, I won't go into detail. Just know that things aren't right back there. And occasionally the toilet paper looks like it's been dipped in salsa. That's all I'll say.

And I don't think there is anything more em-bare-ass-ing (see what I did there?) in the entire world.

This is from a guy who is a little embarrassed to be buying toilet paper, and don't even mention condoms.

If it's a lady cashier, I know she's thinking, "Who are you fooling homo? You know you're just going to jack off into these after the expiration date on the spermicidal lube."

But I braved possible ridicule, and hoped that the self-checkout line would provide me with shelter.

As I browsed the shampoo/soap/medicine section of my local Giant, I quickly realized that not everyone is as shame filled as me.

There was an eldery couple standing near the laxatives, talking about the pron and cons of each like they were at a fucking art gallery. You know, that voice that is supposed to be soft, but they really want everyone to hear what they are saying.

"Well Stan, this one is higher fiber, but this one is orange-flavored."

Gross.

So I pick the classic. Prep H. Put in in my basket, and I felt like I might as well have been carrying child porn. I was putting stupid shit I didn't need over it, just in case someone happened. Now I've got two jars of pickled asparagus. What the fuck am I going to do with that.

The worst part was standing in front of the checkout line. I felt more exposed that if I was walking through the Gaza strip with a Star of David tattooed on my face.

If any sort of attractive female had come anywhere near me, I know what I would have done.

I would have literally punted my basket, breaking eggs and whatever else I had in the basket, and I would have run out of the store, probably all the way to my house (no time to find my car and start it), which is a few miles away.

I would have picked my car up well after closing, and I would never go to that store again.

Luckily, it never came to that. I went into the self-checkout, scanned my shit, and it was there that I realized my fatal flaw:

After you scan the stuff, you put it on a conveyor belt, and it goes to the bagging area, which is passed by each and every customer as they exit. And I almost lost my shit.

Everyone of them could see that I had a problem, and they kept looking at me, judging me.

My second fatal flaw: I was, as I've done on every grocery store trip since I turned 21, purchasing alcohol.

Quick side note: I always try to buy some kind of alcohol when I go to the store. Call me old, fashioned, call me paranoid that the drinking age might suddenly shoot up to 30, but I need to make sure I've got some.

Back to the story. When you scan alcohol at the self-checkout, it means a notice goes off for the cashier, and she must check your ID, and then type in her passsword to clear you.

Well, when the chick comes up to check your ID, she usually takes a second on her way back to bag some of your items, which I usually find to be quite helpful.

Not this time. The fucking meddlesome cunt was getting all in my shit, and it took every ounce of self-control I had to not run out of the store. Luckily, she was an ugly one, and who really cares what ugly chick think? I mean, come on.

So I managed to escape, medication in tow, and hopefully this shit lasts me forever, cause I don't know if I can go through that again.