Illustration by Kalah Allen

Dude. I get that you want to bag and tag a whole lot of spices from the bulk spice section. The amount of labeled bags told volumes of your agenda. You make your fancy hippie feasts for the other smelly steampunks in your shared-household circle of life. Got it. All I wanted was enough fine ground pepper to fill my shaker. I let you have the spice zone for about seven minutes before I swarmed in. I said, "Hey man, I just want to get some pepper, do you mind me getting into your special herb-gathering for a moment?" You said: "It's a free world, man." I pointed out the lack of prep space, as there was none. Your labeled bags were everywhere... You said: "Well, I was here first." I said: "You are right, but for fuck's sake, I'm going to be gone in three seconds." You said: "Fuckers like you! Always in a hurry! Makes me so goddamn pissed off." I spun on my heels with my pepper and bailed. I told the management on my way out, and they seem to already know all about you. Next time I have to encounter your dumbass culinary excursion, I'm gonna kick you in the neck.—Anonymous