MARGARET'S GROCERY, VICKSBURG, MISS. (WARNING: THIS PICTURE HAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING TO DO WITH WHAT FOLLOWS)
You know when you’re trundling the trash can full of a week’s worth of god-knows-what down the driveway and it hits that seam in the concrete and stops you with a jolt and sends a shock wave through your arms to your shoulders and makes your head whip back and your teeth rattle? Just as it has every single goddam Monday night for the last five years? And it makes you so mad you think about running to the pet store and buying the cutest little puppy in the world and flying to wherever it is that Sister Wendy lives and giving her that cute little puppy as a gift just so you can hurl insults at the puppy and make Sister Wendy’s face crumple and burst into those pitiful nun tears and right before you leave you also squirt Heinz Extra Spicy Ketchup on her wimple for good measure? And you also give her the finger? And slam the door? Well, that just happened to me.