My Sunday morning run to the grocery store is sacrosanct, and yet I cannot think of a more stressful way to spend an hour. Combine an itemized list and years of repetition, with the (admittedly irrational) expectation of finding everything in stock and having no wait to check out and stepping through the store's automatic doors feels like the climax of a heist movie. It shouldn't be so high stakes, but it is. Whatever the result, catharsis-and, possibly, road rage-comes on the drive home. But sometimes, there is a final twist: Our protagonist walks into his kitchen, opens the grocery bag, and inside? Not $1 million in cash, but a pool of raw chicken juice leaking from a poorly sealed package.
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