This is at least a couple of weeks old. My dogs were dragging. Needed a boost. Not the the teeth rotting meth type of injection, but something chemical none-the-less. Swung into the Sinclair by the house. A couple 5-hour energy mini’s and a rock star should do the trick.
The attendant starts to ring me up. One scan, two scan, responds to a text, three scan and price. I stared at her for a good 10-15 seconds before producing my credit card. And not the batting eyes, I want to get wit u later eyes, but the, WTF? What are doing stare. I keep my mouth shut, trying to process.
She takes my card, responds to text, swipes the card, responds to text, returns my card, responds to another text.
My brain is starting to hurt. Its trying desperately to keep this mouth quiet. Spoiler alert, it fails.
“Did you just fucking interrupt this entire transaction by texting?”, I growl.
*blink* *blink*, “would you like a receipt?”, she mumbles?
“Depends, how many texts will it take to get my receipt?”, asks the asshole.
The Deer hands me my receipt, wide eye and unblinking.
“Is everything OK. Anyone hurt?”, I ask in my calmest voice.
“Its just my boy friend ….”
