This Is Why I’m Not A Performance Artist (Well This, Plus The Fact That I’m Not An Artist)


Part of me is amused by the thought of running — literally, running — into Walgreens and filling a shopping cart with triple-ply toilet paper and medicated butt wipes and Preparation H and Pepto Bismol and Tums and Kaopectate and Depend adult diapers and Windex and an eight-pack of paper towels and Playtex living gloves and garbage bags and room deodorizer and toilet-bowl cleaner and bleach and bleach and more bleach and a pack of earplugs and maybe a Yoo Hoo, then begging the cashier to be quick about it because I’m in a hurry.

I like thinking about the expression on her (or possibly, his) face as she begins to ring everything up, imagining the worst. Would she be brave enough to ask?

Another, more Southern part of me is embarrassed by what the other folks in line might think.

And yet another part of me is saddened to think that for some people, it’s not a joke. For some people, it’s their weekly shopping list.

And so I don’t do anything at all.

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