Random stuff, reflections on the meaning of life and death, humour, self-deprecation, a bit of bad poetry.

I was at the local grocery store the other day when an elderly lady in the canned goods aisle flagged me down in a panic and asked me if I could reach a can of something fishy from the top shelf. I looked her in the eye … directly in the eye … almost at eye level and asked, “Are you serious?”. On the tip of my toes, I reached up to the cans of something fishy that were stock-piled in fours, removed the top three and lowered them ever-so-gently while she, who could be me in thirty years but only if I start my yoga practice right away and take calcium supplements and eat cans of something fishy on a regular basis to prevent shrinkage, steadied me from behind with two hands and a very large black patent pocketbook, its gold clasp digging into my lower back. “I only need one.”, she said firmly. I placed the other two cans of something fishy on the shelf that was at eye level. We smiled at our respective pocketbook reflections. Then she thanked me and I promptly forgot all about my can of something fishy and whatever else I had gone down that aisle to get in the first place.

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