On my way home from derby practice last night I realized I was running uber low on my smokie treats, so I of course stopped at a gas station to make the purchase that kills me one inhale at a time. You know what happened? I am going to tell you.
I was almost NOT sold ciggies because I apparently look like I am not eighteen years old. Okay people, I will be thirty years old in two months plus three days. Thirty. And I somehow don't look eighteen.
The older guy behind the counter checked my ID, then looked at me, checked my ID, looked at me. You know, gave me the twice over. Then he had his co-worker examine it...the older woman of doom. She gave me the thrice over while I started pulling out credit cards or ANYTHING to prove I was over the age of eighteen. The woman of doom finally said that it "looked like a valid license" and they could sell them to me.
So then me and my social retardededom offered to show them my roots so they could see my greys and natural color, but the lady snapped at me and said a LADY NEVER SHOWS HER ROOTS. Okay there day-glo orange woman. Whatevs. Just give me my smokes.
Was this a sign I should stop smoking? Probably. Am I going to adhere to the sign at this time? No, I am not. I shall enjoy my p-funk all-stars for the time being. I am smoking a lot less than I used to and am down to about one point five to two packs a week. And that, my friends, is progress. Perfection doesn't happen overnight.