My black ink pen exploded all over me at the grocery store while I was crossing off items off my list. It reminded me how futile it is to make lists, because they never work for me. I always forget something. It's ridiculous. Going to the grocery store is like walking into a black hole and I lose all concept of time and space. I daydream and I'm mesmerized by the neatly stacked shelves and bright marketing. It's all like an Andy Warhol painting--in real life! I'm also easily distracted by sale items and good-looking food, too. Marketers love me because I'm the female between 34-49 head of the household who does the primary grocery shopping, so I know I'm an easy target and I'm being unfairly singled out. (Like when Kacy pointed out that we were humming along to "the cool music" in a Swiffer commercial--that's when I first realized I was now "target demographic.") I don't go to the grocery store hungry, but I'm always in the mood to eat, so there's that, too. It's all just a bad combination.
I thought I was being so great at writing a list down. And I never cross off items on my list. Just moments before, I was patting myself on my back at how organized and prepared and calm I was in this usually stressful situation. I thought is was necessary because I was doing "the week of Thanksgiving" marathon shopping. That's some serious grocery shopping and I have a lot of food expectations for this week (and I think a lot about pie) and I didn't want to have to come back to the grocery store and lose another day of my life. But I probably will and the exploding pen was my message from the universe saying, "A list!? Nice one. You're too weak to withstand my evil magnetic pull. . .You'll be back!"
So there I was next to the deli, distracted by the exotic cheeses, and my black ink pen ran down my right hand and down my list. I tried to fervently blot out my pathetically long list, but it made things worse of course. I had to guess a couple of items. I still don't know why I had crushed pineapple on my list. I think that was a misread. So now I have permanent black ink all over my hand in a cool, twisty pattern that won't wash out and when people inevitably ask me "What happened?!" (Why do people ask that--because they really don't know why ink would get on your hand or because they're making conversation?) I simply tell them that I opened a horcrux and I'm slowly dying.