Because I'm Happy

I consider myself fundamentally a good person. I don't go running through the streets of Galway carrying a bucket of headless dead chickens, foaming at the mouth throwing them towards anyone who I stumble upon. Like most folk I have the odd flaw or two but I like to think my positives generally outweigh my negatives. Nonetheless, we as a society can only tolerate a certain degree of niceness, you are not going to offer the homeless junkie sleeping in your apartment block's bin store to share your double bed with you or if you are overcharged on your recent electricity bill you are sure as hell going to let them know about it. I'm bad at giving examples, I know.

Normally, I don't need to point out irrelevant stuff like this, I like to think anyone fearless enough to read this blog possesses a brain and it's all safely taken for granted.

Another invaluable Friends lesson, being over friendly earns you a Regina Phalange. 

I can tell you one person who doesn't read this blog, my local supermarket clerk. To be honest there is a strong possibility that she doesn't read anything at all and is completely illiterate. 

As a disclaimer it must be noted that I know absolutely nothing about this woman and she equally knows absolutely nothing about me, except for how unhealthy my love for Philadelphia Cheese is. 

I understand in a working environment when dealing with members of the public you do have to be extra friendly and enthusiastic, no one enjoys dealing with a rude checkout girl. But no one likes dealing with a freakishly joyous, on-cloud-nine checkout girl at ten o'clock on a Tuesday evening either.

The following conversation was recorded as evidence, to be used to my advantage in a courtroom in the near future.

Cashier: "Hi-yaaaaaa".
Me: "Hi". I knew almost instantly that this would not end well.
Cashier: "How are you keeping?". Standard, bring along question to tide conversation over until the transaction is completed, these are a given.
Me: "Yeah, grand". Thee universal response, this is where any chattering should have terminated.
Cashier: ''Wow! I love your hat". Seemingly black, oversized Smurf shaped hats are her thing.
Me: "Ah thanks". The hat is hideous, so hideous that I only wear it to seal away my manic hair when it comes to a stage in the evening when it is no longer deemed appropriate for it to remain in the public eye, or to be brushed for that matter.
Cashier: "Look at all this goodies you have, are you going to a party?". I had a bag of Haribo, some cheap ass on sale crisps and a black-as-my-soul coloured fizzy drink in my arms, this was not my idea of a good time, it was my idea of substituting feelings for food in the company of a few bickering Big Brother house-mates type night.
Me: "What?". I was still in shock she said goodies, I hadn't heard that word since I was seven, and even then it was by some weird old grand-aunt.
Cashier: "All these sweeeeties, are you and your friends going to have a little party?". She pronounced sweeties in such a manner that I had to squint my eyes, that's how harsh it sounded overloading my eardrums.
Me: "Sure we will see". What friends? This food was all for me, I could eat it all on the way home if I needed to, any people in my life willing to steal my food are no friends of mine.
Cashier: "Enjoy the celebrations anyway". Was she patronizing me? I am a twenty-one year old man. My definition of a good time involves the aid of three nurses, two doctors and a stomach-pumping procedure, not three items from the confectionery isle. 
Me: "Right". Conversation ended.

Maybe I was being rude, am I over thinking the goodwill and cordiality displayed from this newcomer?

Five minutes further down the road there's a crummy, contaminated, less welcoming grocery store which I intend to shop in from now on. At least there my bag of Doritos and I aren't subjected to a round of interrogation.  

Their facial expressions are identical. 


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