My local Walmart is notorious for being ghetto. I know that ghetto isn’t a politically correct word, but before you criticize me realize I use this word so infrequently that I am not a threat to your sensibilities. Go jump down someone else’s throat, and stop using the word ’suck’, because I bet you do.

Whoops, that was a tangent. So as we walked through the parking lot, listening to the noise of sirens, trunk-rattling beats, babies crying, women hitting their children, and birds screeching (none of this is exaggerated), we gave each other that look. The look that means, hey, look at us. Remember this because we may not come out alive. Everytime we go in there.

What did we buy? Tredsafe shoes for work, two pairs. 50 dollars bled out of my hand for those. A work shirt for Wade, a Sterilite drawerset for his guitar doodads, which I hate the look of but is temporary, and a case of water. Out of 25 registers, like 6 were open of course, so we ended up in a line behind 4 people, with 4 separate transactions. Two 20-something girls dressed in shorts and spaghetti strap shirts were in line in front of us, and I caught a bit of French. I was quite taken aback by this, because….well, they’re French. In Florida, not so much a shocker. In Walmart in the ghetto, a little bit. Especially in Tampa. I don’t think of Tampa as a resort town. At all. As a matter of fact, it sort of isn’t glitzy and clean at all.

I don’t think there was a point to this story at all. Except that I survived another trip to Wally World.

Back to my conversation about sex in IM with Damon. Ooohh.