Fuck All

Let us tell a few stories and call it research. First subject, the parking lot philosopher who leaves the cart three feet from the corral because walking those three feet would defeat the spirit of personal freedom. The wind pushes that cart into a brand new bumper. Our scholar shrugs and says the universe will handle it. The universe does not handle it. Insurance does, after a week of hold music and a fee that feels like ransom.

Second subject, the elevator sprinter who sprints only to hit the close door button while you are two steps away. They stare at you through the tiny glass window with the calm gaze of a house cat. When the doors open on the next floor they pretend they do not see you. This is theater. The ticket price is your sanity.

Third subject, the potluck hero who brings half a bag of chips in a bowl and announces that they are on a journey of minimalism. They also take home the leftover brisket that they did not bring. They call it balancing the scales. The scales call it a cry for help.

Fourth subject, customer service chat warriors who type speak to a manager at the speed of light and then post the transcript like it is a victory parade. The win is a coupon that expires yesterday. They frame it anyway.

There is the group chat ghost who appears only to drop a link to their fundraiser, then vanishes into vapor. There is the coworker who reheats fish at nine in the morning and says you should try new things. There is the neighbor who plays drums at midnight on a Tuesday and calls it growth.

People claim loyalty until the check arrives. People promise honesty until the truth gets inconvenient. People borrow your lighter and retire with it to a private island. The anthem is me first and the encore is also me first. The choir hits a perfect note of sorry not sorry and the crowd sings along.

If you still keep faith, I admire your stamina. Guard your wallet. Guard your logins. Guard your fries. Celebrate the rare good ones with all your might because they are unicorns in a stampede of donkeys. As for the rest, may their carts always drift back to them with gentle and poetic force.

So I was at the grocery store yesterday, watching a grown adult argue with a self-checkout machine about whether a banana is technically a vegetable. For twenty minutes. TWENTY. MINUTES.

The machine kept saying "Please place the item in the bagging area" and this absolute legend kept putting the banana everywhere EXCEPT the bagging area. On top of the screen. Next to the scanner. At one point, I swear they tried to scan their own forehead.

Meanwhile, there's a line of 15 people forming behind them, and not ONE person says anything. We're all just standing there like we're witnessing the heat death of the universe in real time. Which, honestly, we probably were.

The best part? When they finally figured it out, they looked around triumphantly like they'd just solved world hunger. Then they left without buying the banana.

This is why aliens don't visit us. They're up there going "Nope, they're still figuring out produce codes. Give them another century."

Anyway, that's my daily dose of faith in humanity completely shattered. Tomorrow I'm shopping online. The robots can't disappoint me any more than people already have.

Update: Just tried to order groceries online. The website asked me to verify I'm not a robot. I failed the captcha three times. The machines have already won.