Self-Inflicted Gunshot Wound

Many people go to church on Sundays. I go to E-Mart. It's a lot like going to church, actually, only I worship low prices instead of the Lord, and I read from fliers advertising discounts rather than the Holy Scripture. Both are equally bothersome, but I choose E-Mart because, if I go there, at least I can sleep in.

There was a time when Sunday meant football and gorging myself with all kinds of bad foods. Sadly, those days are past. Sunday in 2006 means waking up at 9am, slightly hungover, on 4-5 hours sleep and feigning that I have a stomach ache so that the Big Nurse (aka my lovely wife) will hopefully take pity on me and let me veg at home all day. Sometimes it works; usually it doesn't. There are things to be done, you see, and what better day than my one day of the week off in which to do them? Grin and bear it, Sparkles.

One thing that needs doing is shopping for groceries. I'm all for ordering them on-line and having them delivered to our door by some high school drop-out with greasy hair, but the wife doesn't share in my enthusiasm. Apparently shopping for food is supposed to be fun, a family thing. I must have missed the memo.

I can always tell how awful the E-Mart experience will be for me by checking out how many shopping carts are left out front. On a day like today, when a big ass truck from some other E-Mart (possibly the flagship one in Hell) pulls up to deliver extra shopping carts because the ones here are almost gone, you know it's going to be pretty bad. The look on my face upon entering is likely the same as a calf before the slaughter: I don't know exactly what is in store for me, but I know it's not going to be pleasant.

I think we were there for about 45 minutes. I'm not sure, because while my wife shopped for food (the little girl nestled safely in her cart; I wish I were small enough to fit into one of those fuckers), I sort of blacked out while dodging all manner of harmful peril, from ajumma elbows (I think the aged darlings whittle them to keep them sharp) to the dreaded shopping cart from behind ankle bump (I swear, the next time that happens, I'm going to maim whomever the culprit is with their own sack of spring onions). Shopping at E-Mart for me is like how I imagine electro shock therapy to be: later on I don't tend to recall my previous "treatment", but I sure as hell remember that I don't want to experience it again.

Maybe that's why I drink on Sundays. I need something, anything, to mask the horror.