I Don't Belong Here.

a humor blog from the trenches of suburbia.

I took a 3.5 mile walk before lunch, but around 3, I also put Robert in the stroller and we walked to the shopping center on a bad snacks trip. I went to 7-Eleven first and then to Dollar Tree, and I got a bunch of junk that made me feel awful but was delicious.

One thing I got at the dollar store was a box of Jujyfruit, which I haven’t had in YEARS.

I was kind of disappointed in them, to be honest, because they stuck to my teeth way less than I remembered them doing when I was a kid. Maybe these ones were fresher or something, but I doubt it, because they were from Dollar Tree and nothing at Dollar Tree is at Dollar Tree because it’s fresh.

So that leads me to believe there’s been some kind of reformulation in the last 20 years, which is also a bummer, because who else is buying this candy other than people looking for a filling-removing bite of nostalgia?

I was also surprised to discover that the black pieces aren’t licorice-flavored as I’d believed forever, but, according to the box, anise-flavored. 

I always forget how you pronounce that word. Is it like the pain reliever Anacin, or a-uh-neese, like the butthole? The only person I’ve ever heard use that word is Melinda’s mom when she makes Christmas cookies flavored with anise. It’s weird that I’m 36 years old and can spell and define words properly without knowing how to pronounce them. I’ll have to pay attention next time Mary Grace says it.

As I went into Dollar Tree, a girl got out of a very small car I think was a Fiat and started yelling at the driver. “You wanna fuckin’ fight right in the parking lot?” she said. “Let’s go!” Then she stormed toward Little Caesar’s, because of course she was picking up a subpar pizza at 3 in the afternoon. The driver, who I assume was a dude, honked the horn, and she turned and gave him the finger. It wasn’t the dainty finger of a lady, but the trashy kind where the giver also extends the thumb so it forms a kind of L shape. Adding to the grossness was her fingernails, which extended the 90 degree angle an additional 3 to 4 inches.

In response to this delicate form of sign language, the dude in the car started revving his engine, which, since it was a Fiat, sounded like an 11-year-old waiting to smoke his uncle at the starting line of a go-kart track.

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