“This! This right here!” He pointed at a hand-written sign that said, “PLEASE REMEMBER YOU’RE SHOPPING BAGS” while invading my personal space. “If you fix this, all the probabilities align and the world doesn’t suck!” The mania was obvious, but something was off. Too clean for a tweeker or homeless. I just need milk. “Ignore it and the world ends in 2058” Personal space, dude. “Don’t fuck it up!” And then nothing. Gone in an instant, no flash, no de-materializing. Just. Fucking. Gone.
I went back to my car and got my bags.
But that “you’re”… Well, a lot can happen in 34 years, but fixing endemic grammar errors… probably isn’t one of them.
I didn’t need more booze, but you never know. As I pondered an aged rum, it hit me like a stack of postmodern existentialism. “REMEMBER YOU ARE SHOPPING BAGS”.
I put the bottle in the cart.