When I was fourteen I was shipped off to live with my grandmother in Streamwood, Illinois. I had been caught, on the last day of ninth grade, bumming beer from a bunch of twenty-one year olds who really had no business hanging out with teenagers. There was a girl in the mix of them. Her name was Kris and I will never forget her because she was pretty and cool and she didn’t belong buying beer at a Circle K in Kent, Washington for three underage kids.

Building on yesterday’s post in which I explored an existential panic attack set off by an eavesdropped conversation between two friends talking about shopping, I thought I would disclose that I am a skilled shopper. 

I had an existential crisis at the farmers market today. I was standing in the long line for the pupusa lady, which seems like it’d be an innocuous enough thing. Two minutes through my wait, a girl walked by and recognized the girl in front of me.  They were friends and the former joined the latter in line.