You know how some people are allowed to have pets in no-pet apartments with a doctor's note because they're medically proven to help soothe people with depression? Well, I need one of those notes to get a medically-approved personal assistant to help soothe the pain of reality. I went out to run some errands today and almost had a breakdown.
Used to be I was able to deal with everyday life as other people live it. I could get around and eat in restaurants and go shopping and all of that jazz without difficulty, then still live my extraordinary bonus nighttime life on the side. But somewhere along the way I lost touch with daytime reality. I stick to the path of least bullshit, which generally keeps me safe and out of the malls. But today I had errands to run.
Fans, you know how you'd talk to your parents and you were playing music and they asked what it was and you'd say Duran Duran and they were like, "Who's that?" and you were like "Duran Duran is the biggest band on the planet, on every radio and television station and magazine and often the news. How could you possibly exist in the world and not know about that?" That's what I feel like when I go into a kitchen store. When did this become relevant?
My first stop of the day was Bed, Bath, & Beyond. That place really creeps me out. The people in there are happy smiling hand-holding yuppiesque couples split 50-50 gay and straight. Being single in the store is hard because like how they elevate the oxygen levels in Vegas casinos to make the gamblers excitable, at BB&B they pump in nesting gas and it gives you this hysterical urge to Settle Down and Have Children and Brushed Aluminum Countertops.
Further complicating the matter is the fact that nothing in the store corresponds to anything in my life. Wait, there is a utensil that exists for the sole purpose of removing toast from the toaster? No. Fucking. Way. Wait, a mustard spoon? Are you serious? So the only thing you use it for is to get mustard out of the mustard jar? And people buy these? A lemon zester? An orange peeler? An oyster knife? A pickle retriever? What the hell is going on?
Later I stopped into Crate & Barrel (what's with the ampersands in kitchen store names?) and had the same overwhelming urge to flee while screaming. The other shoppers were LOVING IT though. I heard two girls talking, "I could just stay in here all day! I want one of everything!"
I don't know what the hell anything is in there, and their organizational system seems to be by color instead of function. Orange knives are next to orange corkscrews and orange napkins. Luckily they had labels on their objects so I could differentiate the olive picks from the cocktail picks from the tooth picks. I think I am supposed to have some sort of Dream Kitchen Envy in these stores but all I keep thinking is, "This is wrong. We must burn it to the ground."
I have a kitchen store nervous anxiety disorder and the only sensible solution is having a personal assistant to run these errands for me. I am sick, and I need help. Can't I get a prescription for that?