Mrs. Dappered and I have a Costco membership. I just never go with her. Because I just… can’t.
It’s not that I’m better than Costco-goers. It’s that I’m worse. Oh I’ll reap the rewards of her going (at least I carry the heavy stuff in from the car), but I just can’t do it. It puts me in an existential crisis, because I still have the ego for that sort of self-indulgent foolishness.
Just the sheer immensity of it all. You might see a five gallon bucket of pickles… but for me, staring at that warhead of kosher dills is like looking up at a sky full of stars. It’s hard not to be awash in a brine of insignificance. That you’re this irrelevant, untalented, ape shaped pile of stardust, not even a spec of cosmic dandruff, caught between the cognitive dissonance of wanting to think there might be a greater purpose, while equally desiring to accept that this was all just one big accident, and therefor, you best get along with getting a kick out of your measly, quickly deteriorating existence.
Costco, this paragon of supply chain efficiency, is the kind of thing that would have melted Boris Yeltsin’s medulla oblongata. And it makes me feel like an enormous, tiny, loser.
That’s all, carry on.
I love you.