This is week 46 of The Life of Riley, a weekly post detailing my activities since I ended a thirteen year career as a corporate drone. These posts are usually long, personal, and geared more for my own memory than the reader’s entertainment.
Sunday (Day 315): #1GF! Loooooves Country
The weather was crappy, so we puttered around the house all day, with me giving up on showering. The biggest thing I did was create a classic country playlist on FineTune to prove to #1GF! that she actually likes country. She will solidly deny it, but she was singing along to a lot more songs than I could.
We ended the day by watching a Netflix recommended movie. It was so frustratingly bad, that I had to shut it off in just over 12 minutes. #1GF was asking for mercy in 5, but I kept hoping that it would pick up somehow. Sometimes, I hate Netflix for recommending movies that suck so bad it hurts.
Monday (Day 316): Don’t Be An Ultra-Douche
I called the contractor because nothing had been going on with the house for a week and then did the food shopping while listening to Valient Thorr. I took the self check line, and had to stand behind a woman who was writing a check. A couple of soft rules for the modern supermarket shopper:
Rule 1. Don’t write checks at the fucking supermarket. Use cash, a credit card, or beep beep boop your way through with a debit card if you have to. Don’t write a check. There are people behind you who, even though they look like they are really interested in the plethora of gum choices, they are just counting the number of packs so that they don’t reach over and strangle you.
Rule 2: Self checkout lines are for people who are trying to minimize human contact and race out the door. DO NOT FLAG SOMEONE OVER TO PAY BY FUCKING CHECK IN THIS LINE. You’re fucking up the system and porking everyone behind you.
Rule 3: If you forgot rules 1 and 2,and you’re paying by check in the self-check line, at least bag your fucking groceries while you wait. Don’t flag down the manager, write your check, wait for approval, and THEN start bagging. Fuck. Have that shit bagged up before the dude gets back. Not doing so will mark you as an ultra douche who doesn’t give a flying shit about anyone around them. Wait. Are you retarded? Of course not because even retarded people can follow simple fucking rules.
After standing behind a check writing ultra-douche in the self-checkout line, I ended up leaving the milk on the counter and remembered it only after I got outside. A woman picked up that something was wrong probably due to me bending at the waist and mouthing “shit!” as I walked out, so I had to pull off my Walkman, shrug, and tell her that I forgot the milk. I had been in a low mood for a week or so, but as I walked across the parking lot, I suddenly felt really awesome about not having to work. Maybe it was being free of the ultra-douche, or something else, but it was a great mood lift. Rather than lug my groceries back in to purchase some milk, I went to another grocery store on the way home.
When I got home, I did some research and wrote my Joseph Palmer beard post.
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