shopclops
I maintain that whoever directed the video for "Fake Plastic Trees" recognized that, next to airports, supermarkets are among the saddest places in the industrialized world. Most of us solitary ones don't need to leave the house often, but the grocery trip is one of those weekly debts you have to pay the external world. So you shuffle through the aisles and go about the business of nourishing a body that you couldn't care less about maintaining—it's just one of those things you have to do, like paying the electricity bill. The sweet-faced old women offer you cookies and you turn away because you can't explain to the cookie lady that she's the only person you've talked to that day and it would be worse to have your only human contact be a stranger in a supermarket than to have no contact at all. This is sort of analogous to the guy I knew in ninth grade who refused to kiss me at a truth-or-dare night, because to have that be his first kiss would be too cruel.
There's also the matter of the drip-fed sentiment in the form of "soft rock." Most of the time you can treat it as background noise, but in certain vulnerable states you actually find yourself having an emotional connection to the soft-rock ballads, which then produces faux epiphanies about how we are all connected in our longing, or something, and the only thing you can do is go home and lie on the couch and wait for the analgesic flatline state that lying on the couch eventually produces.
what do guatemaln's eat
asks someone, probably so that I will shut up about my problems. The answer is: corn tortillas, black beans (mashed and refried), scrambled eggs with onion and tomato, a weird kind of squash called güisquil, fried plantains, chicken, and in the cities for those who can afford it, hamburgers and steaks.
