Bestie, I continue to be intrigued by your depiction of Trader Joe's! Care to unveil the full extent of what makes going to there akin to undertaking a mythological quest?
Someone has barricaded the puffed rice cracker and ancient grains aisle with their cart, following the old ways of Ser Powers on his trusty motor steed. You retreat and seek another path, daring to risk the frosty wastelands of stupor—but that place is as ever infested with countless piteous creatures whose feet froze them in place long minutes ago. They cannot leave, or will not. They stare, mesmerized, into the depths of vegetarian lasagnas and oven-bake spanakopita. A child gnaws fruitlessly at fruit leather by its mother's side, doomed alongside her as she ponders endlessly the Dark Chocolate Bark with Pistachios, Dried Jalapeños & Sea Salt; Tantalus, reaching out only to notice the glaring lack of a fair trade sticker, drawing back only to realize the chocolate is 73% real cacao.
You somehow navigate the maze of bodies with your sanity intact, yet the handwritten labels are beginning to dance with treacherous glee before your failing gaze. A Hawaiian-becloaked, bearded sage with a gay little earring materializes to pledge you his aid; you fear the secrets hiding behind his deceptively doe-eyed smile. You throw down a reusable tote bag as bait for your escape, fleeing for the sheltering mists of the produce section.
You regain some strength by supping on a morsel of microwaved organic mac n' cheese, offered to you at the sample kiosk in a moist paper cuplet that begs to disintegrate in your hand. It tastes okay. Unable to unearth a worthy resting place, you adopt the cuplet as your squire, to remain by your side until journey's end.
Renewed, you forge onward, leaping rodents resembling shrunken dogs and dodging a brunch inspiration display. Your righteous ears shrug off the call of three dollar wine. You avert your eyes from the disturbing collection of breakfast cereals, arrayed like grotesque trophies on the shelf: each of them eerily familiar, yet obviously changeling copies of a food you once knew and loved. Strange iconography scrawls the walls in colorful smears of sediment. Misdirecting omens flash before you, desperately beguiling—Trader Ming's, Trader Jose's, Trader Jacques'—and your heart swells with the epiphany of approaching success until—!
Finally, your grail is within your grasp: peanut butter enshrouded in pretzel, glorious nuggets of immeasurable sustenance and joy. You weep. You rejoice. You let down your guard like the fool you are.
In your very moment of triumph, a shriveled woman requests the favor of an experimental vitamin supplement from the highest peak, and with your graciousness you are trapped. She has you now. Tales of fish oil spill from her slow lips, and odes to her nephew's friend's miraculous recovery from the plague, as she weaves her spell upon you. The way out is shut. Your tongue bears the prickle of apple cider vinegar. The tile is cool against your cheek.
And somewhere in the distance, the strident tolling of the bell, the bell...
