One Thousand Post Cards From Enemies

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I can't count worth shit.

It's true. 1 + 1 = 38, right? I ain't worth shit when it comes to tabulating shit so don't ask me to do your taxes. I can't. Further, don't ask me to go food shopping with you, because I can look for sales and yet I still can't add shit when I see it come up on a register. Yesterday I had a lot to do. I had to go food shopping and go to Duane Reade to ask about my prescription pills. Well, that might not be a lot to do for you, but it was a terror for me. You know how I am with the outside world.



Yeah, I have to psyche myself up just to prepare to leave my room. I step out and immediately the crows come out too, and the Bat Faced Bitch swoops down on me, all smiles and laughing, asking me jovial questions and I wonder what the fuck got into her. A dick? Did she get laid last night? Before she wouldn't spit in my face if my teeth were on fire, and now she's my best friend. My fucking skin crawls.



Then I get downstairs and the Skeks are standing around the mailboxes like idiots. There are just so many of them because they can't seem to understand the simplest principle of clearing the area. Take your key, go to your mailbox, open it, take out your mail, and then go the fuck away. No, these simple steps are too difficult for Skeks. I come down and shoulder through the crowd of them standing around reading their mail in the corridors and before the mailboxes, elbowing my way through them to reach mine. I unlock and withdraw my mail, shove it into my back pocket and stomp my way through the throng of idiots to break free down the corridor and out the front door of the building. I am thankful to God that I'm not stuck in their lost mindset. Drones, all of them, with IQ's so low that they're second to simians.

I head to Duane Reade and the old lady behind the counter greets me and I ask to not only pick up my meds, but to also see the pharmacist. A tiny, little, lickable (Not likeable, lick-able) Asian girl comes out and stands before me. I open my bottle of Wellbutrin and shake out pills on the counter. Then I separate three. The big pink ones, the big white ones, and the small white ones. Are all these the same pills? I ask her. She looks at me for a split second, then with a dainty finger, separates the pills. "This is Welbutrin 100Mgs," she separates another, "This is Wellbutrin 75Mgs," and she separates the big pink ones, "and these are Wellbutrin 75Mgs from another manufacturer. We cannot get these..." she points to the previous pills, "....any more. This is Wellbutrin." I nod. I am amazed how knowledgeable this young woman is at her job. I thank her, scoop my pills back up and into the bottle, only losing one to the floor, and then take my other prescription that is ready with me when I exit.



Then I make my way over to the Associated grocery megastore. I stroll in and take the sales flyer. It's the first thing that I do, and I check out what is for sale. I'm shopping light today, so I'm not going to fill up with a lot of food. I take just what I need, and a sale here and there. Now here's my problem. Things on sale sound good to me, but when I get to the checkout I get so fucking turned around that when I watch them ring up my items I see them cheating me on the sales. Yeah. It must be the product of my brain. My mind just can't work with numbers, and since this is the case, it always appears to me that the cashier is trying to beat me.



So today, I open my stupid assed mouth concerning three cans of Tuna Fish for Two dollars. So I get six for four dollars. When I get to the counter they add the numbers up individually, and when I start counting on my fingers and toes, I get a total of six dollars for six cans and not four. Waitaminute, is that right? The cashier doesn't even bother with me. She calls over the manager who looks at the digital display of my order and then gives me a lesson in math in front of everyone in the store. She makes it clear that I can't add and I should not be attempting to correct the digital cash register, but instead trust that technology is smarter than I am.



I have to admit. It is. I'm a stupid Skek. I apologize and shake my head, telling the cashier that I'm getting too old to add and subtract without a calculator. She turns her young features to me, looks me up and down and shakes her head, "Oh no you're not. Don't say that," she says, and then smiles. I smile back. I grant her good day and head off. A young cutie making my day. I head home and the Skeks are gone from the hallway, probably after reading through all of their mail before dispersing. I pray that they are not elevator surfing, while I'm waiting. I just want to get home and unpack my food.



This soon occurs and I fall across my bed and rest.

My day is over.

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