Now, this, friends, was clearly my first mistake. Here at the Van, we are not a Wal-Mart family based on the principal that it is an evil institution and somehow connected to the zombie apocalypse. My husband and I have debated this and I have relented, finally, realizing that the store makes me fucking crazy anyway, so WIN-WIN.
But the other day, I offered to run an errand for my mother so that I could get out of the godforsaken house. This errand? This errand brought me to Wal-Mart, guys. And I hear you now, all, But, c'mon Kristine, it's a STORE for crying out loud. WHAT'S THE WORST THAT COULD HAPPEN.
Well, funny you should ask. Let me answer that for you with the following list and illustrations:
1. Entering the parking lot to this SUPER Wal-Mart is pretty much as frustrating as playing that old-fashioned marble game Labyrinth when you're like 5 years too young to even coordinate the damn handles. Observe:
I'm not totally sure who engineered this mother of a parking lot, but I'm pretty sure he's not a Wal-Mart guy either and is all ROFLMAOMMMMGGGGG you guys, SUCKERS!
2. Once I navigated the maze and slayed the necessary dragons, I was promoted to the next level where I found myself within walking distance to the warehouse. I decided to park toward the opposite end. There were fewer cars, there, you see, and since rain was threatening, I wanted to get a somewhat close spot lest I come out with my arms full of sweat-shop labor produced items and HEAVEN FORBID, get damp.
3. As I made my way over to this desolate region, I started to let down my guard. It's just a store! Be optimistic! Maybe they have a puppies and rainbows section!
It was at this point when I was backed into by a young, angsty, and impossibly angry/rude/motherfucking cunty 18 year old child. Now, while contact was not *exactly* made, I did have to slam on my breaks which gives about the same effect of a crash: I gagged for a few moments on my seatbelt which was alerted to STRANGLE mode and the contents of my vehicle lunged forward and scattered under mats, into seat cushions, and perhaps into crevices I knew not existed. I've yet to find my lip gloss, people.
Oh, did I mention that she gave me the finger as she drove away? Lovely, that girl. She'll go places with that finger.
4. Once inside the store, I was greeted by tormented souls with absolutely no interest in LIVING let alone helping me purchase my sweatshop labor produced items. Fucking Wal-Mart, right?
5. To buy three items, it took me no less than 45 minutes between finding unmanned registers, being told to look up UPC numbers myself (eh, wha?), and ultimately stomping around like a privileged white woman demanding the service I fucking deserved.
6. I made it out of Wal-Mart alive that day, my friends, but I lost a bit of my soul in the Halloween aisle. And, perhaps worst of all, have given my husband yet another opportunity to say I told you so, wife.