I'm talking to you. You know who you are. You're the assclown in front of me in the checkout line, who has a large item up on the counter, but yet you can't seem to find the strength to move it so I can put my stuff up. Clearly I'm struggling with my full basket and the canister set under my arm, yet you don't seem to notice me. You make me cranky. You are rude. I hope Santa brings you socks and tighty whities. 
From the short, angry girl behind you
From the short, angry girl behind you
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