When I was just a young'un of 15 I worked at a locally owned grocery store. Sadly it wasn't one of those cool, close-like-family grocery stores, it was amore of a creepy-inbred-dysfunctional-family kinda' store. Anyhow, since we were so small and Wal-Mart was killing our business I would sometimes carry peoples groceries to their house, especially one old lady that always came in who lived about a block away. Anyhow, whenever I carried groceries for this lady she insisted on giving me something, sadly she was always broke (which was a sad disapointment for me, since I knew her son was a lawyer) so she tipped me in cookies, or whatever strange concotion was lying around her house. One day it was popsicles. However, unlike the typical grandmotherly stereotype, this woman made awful cookies, and they were always oatmeal raisin cookies (which I think are God's way of saying he's mad at us) so it was a double-bad taste whammy to my sense. BUT SHE ALWAYS WANTED TO SEE ME EAT IT!
I'm skinny. Consequently everyone with motherly instincts insist on trying to get me fat, this works well most of the time, but when it makes an old lady force me to eat her hideous cookies, it's very depressing.
So I would have to stand there, chewing the cookie slowly, her watching my adams apple to make sure it bobbed with each swallow.
Creepy.
David Lynch creepy.
I'm skinny. Consequently everyone with motherly instincts insist on trying to get me fat, this works well most of the time, but when it makes an old lady force me to eat her hideous cookies, it's very depressing.
So I would have to stand there, chewing the cookie slowly, her watching my adams apple to make sure it bobbed with each swallow.
Creepy.
David Lynch creepy.
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