Start out depressed, everything comes as a pleasant surprise

I'm just gonna come right out and say it: Treasure Island grocery store is my home away from home. I go there most nights after work, really for only one reason: to buy dinner. Some nights I get a turkey drumstick from the hot food counter. The kindly black man who waits on me there knows that I do take gravy with my mashed potatoes, and he knows not to give me too much. He knows I eat alone in my room, and he probably figures I do it while weeping and watching Lifetime: Television for Women. He's not wrong. On nights when I don't feel like eating myself into permanent spinsterhood, I visit the salad bar, where the young Hispanic boy who works the produce section stares at me as I shake the juice off of my black olives before delicately placing them in the plastic container that houses my veg-tastic delights. I believe he hates me. I believe he hates me for always taking time to dig around and get the lettuce that isn't on top of the heap, the tomatoes that aren't mushy and white in the middle, the hard-boiled eggs that aren't the slightest shade of green. He taps his foot, and twirls the tie of his apron around his index finger, the way some girls will twirl their hair when they're bored or just plain mad at the world. Fuck you world, they say (usually not aloud). Ha! I'll show you by twirling my hair! At Treasure Island, I also cross paths with a middle-aged Asian gentleman, whom I believe is the general manager of the store. He usually rings me up. He wears thick, thick glasses and he has acne despite being at least forty years old, and I like him very much. I like him because once when I was buying donuts, he gave me a deal because I was buying them at the end of the day. Donuts are supposed to be 75 cents each, but he gave me two donuts for 50 cents! That's a whole dollar off. A whole dollar! After that, we were bosom buddies (and still are to this day). I believe that the Asian gentleman is engaged to the pear-shaped girl who works the counter at the front of the store, which serves no purpose whatsoever other than being a place that a random customer can come up to and ask the time or inquire about when the hell they're going to put out more free samples (soon, I hope). It wouldn't be weird at all if I got invited to Asian gentleman and pear-shaped's wedding. I think that when not if I get my invite in the mail (along with, I hope, some sort of buttery biscuit or something!) all will be right with the world. All will be exactly as it should be. Certainly we're a mismatched family at Treasure Island, but we are a happy family.