A scene at the grocery store this afternoon:
An overweight woman in her fifties drops down from the driver’s seat of an older fifteen-passenger van. The rusted door doesn’t close all the way, so she leans back and gives it a hard kick. She’s wearing tight gray sweatpants and a black tank top and doesn’t appear to have washed or combed her hair for awhile. She has a row of pearcings on both lips with short metal spikes poking out like a catfish after a run-in with an overpowered boat prop. Across the wide seat of her sweatpants are the letters S-W-E-E-T.
Even if she has nothing else going for her, at least she has a sense of humor.