Fruit of the Loom.

8 Feb

I wish strawberries weren’t $80 a carton. By the price, you’d think they were selling nuggets of gold in between the Fuji apples and Dole bananas. I buy them regardless. They’re so delicious. I either go through an entire carton in the blink of an eye, or they sit in my fridge and become hairier and moldier than Roseanne’s vagina. I can never win.

Every couple of weeks I develop an unshakeable addiction to various edible items, may it be beverage or food. This week? Werther’s Originals. Not familiar? Go to your grandma’s house and dig around in the candy drawer. I have been purchasing these hard caramel candies (sugar free of course) by the bundle every couple of days, literally clearing the shelves of them at local convenience stores like CVS, and consuming them one after another like a hopeless addict. My new beverage of choice? Fresca Peach Citrus. I may as well strap on a Camelbak and fill it at the rate I consume this stuff. It’s actually beginning to affect my organs negatively. I am becoming carbonated. If you shake me, I may explode under the pressure. Everyone has their vices.

I recently began tanning my albino-esque flesh at a nearby tanning salon called Golden Tan. By definition, this salon is rather “sketchy.” Sketchy meaning that the “walls” separating the rooms are made of particle board, the Australian Gold posters are from the 70s, and it is poorly lit. My first fear was contracting herpes from an unsanitized bed, but the fact that the salon was within walking distance from my apartment was a major selling point, so I decided to cut my losses and go ahead with purchasing a tanning package there. This has nothing to do with my story.

Anyone who tans knows that when you enter your room to tan, the recently cleaned tanning bed has a towel folded nicely on the bed with a little sign that says “This Bed Has Been Sanitized” and a complimentary candy to enjoy whilst you soak up concentrated UV rays, which I never eat and simply place back onto the bed when I am finished tanning. The other day I noticed something about my candy, which is pictured below:

What kind of candy IS this? I have never seen a candy like this before. The pattern resembled that of a cinnamon candy or a mint, except it was the color of poop and pea soup. Then I realized that this is the same candy that was on my bed last time. In fact, it was the same candy that had been on my bed every single session I had there since I had started. Nobody eats the candy they provide. Nobody. Including myself. This candy is probably the exact same ancient candy that they laid on the bed the very first day their salon opened in 1972, and it had never been eaten since. Instead, it was left unopened, and simply placed back onto the bed once it had been cleaned. Over and over again. For years. Perhaps it even began as a white and red candy, but over the decades decayed into the fungal, petrified tumor that it is today.

Gross.

The other day I was sitting at my apartment for a short period of time during the early afternoon between appointments. We do not have cable at our apartment, and the only three channels we pick up are news channels and channels that play really shitty soap operas, Cops, and Two and a Half Men. This particular day, Dr. Phil was on. Since my only other program choice was a news cast about a soup kitchen volunteer in Lee’s Summit, I opted to watch relationship problems on Dr. Phil’s show. My attention was snagged during the end credits. The show ends and the credits start rolling with some closing music while the crowd claps and the camera pans the audience.

And keeps panning the audience.

And keeps fucking panning the audience.

This awkward sequence continues for 3 whole minutes; the camera zooming in on random couples clapping and looking around awkwardly wondering when they are supposed to stop clapping. It was so uncomfortable to watch, I had to change the channel.

Is Whoopi Goldberg a lesbian? And where are her eyebrows? And how did she go from Sister Act to The View? Why can’t Bawbawa Waltaws speak pwopowly? These are the questions I ask as I watch The View through the fuzzy reception we pick up with our rabbit ear antennas.

Brandon and I recently realized that the apartment complex we live in is really an assisted living center. All of our neighbors, all of them, are either somewhere north of 150 to 200 years old, or mentally retarded. Seriously. Our neighbor across the hall? Retarded. His name is David, but he told Brandon it is “Steve.” Neighbor directly across from our patio? Retarded. Next door neighbor? On the verge of death due to old age. The other night as I was walking home from the office, a group of 16 or 17 downies were walking hand in hand throughout the parking lot. What startles me is that our entire parking lot is always full of cars. Most of the inhabitants of this complex are retarded or blind. God help us.

That is all for now.

“It’s weird that the ocean exists at night.”

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