I've Got a Theory
I have a relationship with the clerk in the store where I buy my beef jerky and copenhagen—I mean where I buy my quinoa and acai. I’m in there about twice a week and have been going to this store for basically the entire time I’ve lived in LA. We aren’t wordsmiths towards each other, but we have facial recognition and the “Hey! How are you? Good to see you.” down pat. Yesterday something happened. He rung me up (I got a cherry blow pop that he didn’t charge me for) I swiped my card because plastic makes it easier to believe that you aren’t spending anything. I grabbed my bag of Colt 45 and two zig zags* (I mean because baby…that's all I need)—I mean, organic bananas and almonds, I turned about 35 degrees, got one foot up ready to take a step when he mumbled to me. He either said, “How about that plane?” “Crazy about the plane.” “What do you think about that plane?” Till this day I don't and do not believe I’ll ever know what he initally said. I just kind of
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