well, here goes nothing, right?

Good evening, afternoon, morning. These all, obviously, depending upon your timezone.
This morning I woke up with every intention of saving millions of lives and the like. But as the day drug on, I began to realize that something had gone horribly awry. Everywhere I went, people where frowning. And not just the "Oh I'm having a crappy day" kind of frown, but the "Back up now or I will do something that I might regret later" kind of frown. Now I also realized that trying to talk to these kinds of people doesn't work either. This story, for instance:
Mother had asked me to bike to the grocery to get some reduced fat milk and some half and half. I eagerly hopped onto the old rusted contraption that is my bicycle and peddled to the Savemart located in the strip mall down the street from my home. This grocery towers over a local bookstore, an auto repair place, and a sewing shop. This grocery is a big, squat, round building with the confidence any franchise has about it. As I pushed through the big doors a cool rush of dry, air conditioned oxygen swept the matted hair off my face and forced me backwards a few steps. Along with this welcome cool-down came a sensory overload:
The screaming of an infant hyped up on too many lollipops from the previous hour's birthday party , the constant beeping of cash registers and ATMs, and the baritone hum of the cooling section in the back of the store. I put on a debut ante (?)-like smile and began the death march that is the crossing of the grocery. First came the isle of crackers, chips, and feminine hygiene products. These weren't so hard to fight through seeing as there was no traffic jam of MILFs, shopping carts, and little boys. But the next isle would be much harder. I knew what was comming would be the hardest isle to cross yet. I started phsycing myself up. "C'mon Max, you can do it! It's not that big of a deal. Yeah, that's right! No big deal. All you have to do is walk ten feet. That's it. Only ten measly little feet" where the things traipsing through my mind as I approached the dreaded isle number 16. I thought I was ready, but you can never be fully prepared. The theme to the moment before a final shootout began playing in my head. I took one step, and was instantly teleported to another world. What had been boring old stands of Life cereal and macadamia nuts was now two full walls of heaven. Glossy magazine covers surrounded me from the lenolium covered floor to the heavy hot air six feet above me. You might think that I coveted these magazines for their fashion advice, or for the makeup tips that all teenage girls lust for. But no! ha ha! no no nonoonono. I cannot resist these overpriced tree killers for one thing and one thing only. The Contributor's Page. Oh how I wish to see my pimply round face on that page! But alas, can only look, and not touch. Still, I haven't thrown away my old issue of Marie Clare, so my glorious moments of longing will continue until the edges are worn and the colors have faded. I am rudely awakened from my daydream by a couple in their early 20s trying to decide upon which lubricant they should choose. I quickly recommend one I saw advertised on a billboard I had seen while driving to Los Angeles. They both give me the "but you're just a little girl, you're not supposed to even know about this kind of stuff yet" look, so I made myself as scarce as possible, which is hard, considering the fact that I have my yellow with purple track suit on. Hey! I thought it would look good on my bike... Finally, the dairy section. Hahah! I have conquered the magazine section once again, and I secretly turn around and stick my tounge out at it from behind an elderly man reaching for a carton of full fat milk. "Here you go sir" I say as I had him the milk. He takes one look at the track suit and gives me a big, toothless, saliva encrusted smile. "My young lady, that is quite the color combination you've got on there" he offers up as I collect my own half and half. "Thank you sir..." I say as I try to hide myself. God! What was I thinking? Oh well, time to check out, I guess. Now comes the fun part of this entire trip: finding the guy. I don't know what his name is, but he works express lane number four on weekdays from seven 'till 4:30. I spot his dark moussed hair and make a mad dash to the register. "Hello, did you need any help finding anything today?" he says to nobody in particular, because I'm still a good twenty feet away from lane four. As I reach the little "landing strip", as me and my sister call it, he is tucking away his comb and mirror. Let me tell you something about our nonexsistant relationship: One day about four months back, I came in for some fuit and the latest copy of "Details" when I notices a guy, about 17, reading the Oprah magazine. "Well maybe he's gay" I thought as I approached the counter. "He's certainly handsome enough." I placed my pleuots and Daniel Radcliffe's embossed face upon the rolling band on rubber and waited behind a man who clearly didn't belong here. In an armani suit, brooks brother's tie, and some loafers, this man needed two things: a pack of other men of his kind (designer covered, sports car driving, grey goose martini drinking business execs), and something to do with his hands. I swear, this man looked like a two year old, considering that his hands where everywhere and anywhere. It didn't occur to me that maybe he had some sort of disability, but I just turned around and glanced at Details. When it was my turn in line, Mystery Man was reading Oprah while scanning Nervous Rich Exec's items. When he caught me looking at it, he quickly tucked it away and turned a nice chardonnay color. "May I ask you something?" I asked him. "Uhh, sure. whatever dude" he replied. "Well, I don't want to seem like a stalker or anything, but uhh, I come here alot. You know, with my mom always wanting something from the store. You know, she's not what you think she might be. She's actually..." oh no. I was rambling. His eyes where glazing over. Frick with a trick and a tick... I had to do something. "...and then I said to him; well you just tell your mother..." okay, time for operation Shut Up. "and when she came back to me to tell me that I shouldn't..." I did the best thing I could do. I pretended like my mom was calling me on my cell phone. "Oh hey mom. Yeah I've got your fruit. No I don't need any kotex... mommm!" just keep going max... you're doing fine. "Okay, love you too mom. 'Bye." By this time I thought I might have to call 911, because this guy had fallen alseep, and by the looks of it was having a nasty dream. "Excuse me..." I asked quietly. "excuseeee meeeee" I singsonged to him. With a jerk he was awake, but had the buttons of the register emprinted on his face. "Huh...? Oh, sorry about that man. Hey has anyone ever told you that you talk like.... 90 miles an hour?"... yeah, they have. thanks. "Oh. yeah I get that alot. Lsten, I saw you reading Oprah, and I was wondering: are you gay or do you have a MILF fetish?" Again, the chardonay color. "Uhmmmm. Well I'm working on a small resume, and I get a kick out of reading the contributor's pages..." wow this was amazing. I had to know more, or at least let him know that he was not alone. "Oh my god! Me too!". I flipped through Details until five segments of people's faces came up, and we both let out a little sigh. At that moment, I knew we both wanted to be rght between the photograph of Ian Solotaroff and Peter Rubin. As we bonded over articles about anal and cheatng wives, I knew that if I wanted to make something out of myslef, that I was going to have to work, and work hard.
So now I go to bed, having shared my story of the Mystery Man and my day. Tomorrow will probably be the same as today, only hotter.
But until then: peace.