inflated with helium you’ll float into the atmosphere then *pop!*, get a part time job at your local shitty supermarket.
The second I step foot over the Incredibly-Unwelcoming-Welcome-Mat, I am doused in the gasoline of compliments, which in turn sparks the raging fire that is my ego.
Small and fragile old ladies with warm hearts tell me I am Naturally Beautiful and Just Adorable (“Look At Her Maggie! Look At Her Eyes!”). Forty-something year old (happily?) married men in suits tell me I am Simply Gorgeous and have an Incredible Smile and “Imagine-If-I-Was-Your-Age”.
Busy mums with screaming toddlers and greasy hair pulled into a pony tell me I am Super Quick and “I Love It When You’re Working”. Guys in their early twenties buying cigarettes tell me We Matched On Tinder. (Me: “No we did not. I don’t use tinder.”) Oh. Well We Should Have. Wrinkled old men with button shirts tucked into high waisted trousers tell me I’m Too Smart And Pretty To Be Working Here.
If you ever want an ego so inflated with helium you’ll float into the atmosphere then *pop!*, get a part time job at your local shitty supermarket.
