Dearest Judgmental Party City Counter Clerk:
Let’s be really clear here: your job is to scan and sell me merchandise from your den of iniquitous decor, and not to judge me on my life choices, which are admittedly sketchy.
I purposefully sought out your establishment, knowing that it would be the only store in Texas that sold the 5 incredibly specific items I needed. I didn’t need these things for a party or for my own perverse sexual thrill–I needed them for my fucking job. I came in for work supplies, and I left with a deep feeling of compunction.
Once I had waded through the bins of cold-formed asbestos slinkies, lead-filled paddle balls and cellophane life-affirmations, I waited for you at the counter for a few minutes while you helped a couple of fiancés locate their own asses and also the color-coded $5 chocolate hearts that I am sure are made of pure Belgian butthole. Not once–not even once–was I impatient or in any way showed that I was more entitled to Party City-cisstance than anyone else.
And yet, when you approached the counter, you took one look at my items, then at me, and asked, “Are you lonely?”
It was then that the gravity of the persona I was presenting made itself clear. I stood there in my Jem And The Holograms shirt and jeans with holes large enough to birth twins through, staring at my 5 absolutely necessary items: 2 miniature glitter cowboy hats, 2 squeaky snakes-in-a-can, and a single pack of Hello Kitty Play-Doh.
I can understand, given the data before you, why you would ask such a question. I felt the need to respond to you with the truth of my situation, hoping to clarify a silly misunderstanding.
“Oh no, no–these are for my job. I’m a comedian, and these are for a show!”
Truth, bitch. Represent.
You responded by slamming down the most judgmental stare I’ve ever been privy to while dropping one of my snakes-in-a-can, which punctuated our meeting with a most inappropriately hilarious squeakwheeze.
That is when the secondary gravity of the persona presented made itself clear. I looked like the world’s shittiest feminist prop comedian, with my holey jeans and tiny hats and phallic snakes-in-a-can.
I decided to be the bigger person and stop talking, knowing that there wasn’t anything else I could do to convince you that I wasn’t just the worst. I handed you my money and walked to the door to leave. That is when you decided to call out to me, “Good luck on your…show, I guess.”
Fuck you, Judgmental Party City Partycossiate. Fuck you to death.
Noa D. Gavin
Snake-In-A-Can Charmer, Miniature Glitter Cowboy Hat Wearer, Hello Kitty Play-Doh Enthusiast
Ever had something like this happen: grocery store with tampons and bolt-cutters or Wal-Mart with a belt and pain ointment? (Neither of which are absolutely situations I have been in myself) Ever been inappropriately judged by retail employees or the like? Ever been the judger? DO TELL!– Favorite Comment From The Last Post: From Jillian: “She is a teenager?! When I was a teenager, I thought that ponchos were a good idea.”