Dear Publix,
When I first moved to New York, I missed Publix, where lines were short and finding yogurt was not the equivalent to uncovering the Holy Grail. I anticipated a twelve-inch Publix sub the way Lord of the Rings fans anticipated Return of the King, with excitement, nervousness, and nostalgia. I wanted it to taste as perfectly as I remembered it. Then, I get to my Publix-the store closet to my house that I went to every week during high school-and I find an obnoxious “associate” in every aisle, following me around and asking me if I need help finding rice pilaf. If I needed help, I would fucking ask for it. When I say I’m fine, I MEAN I’M FINE. At the counter, the cashier asked me FOUR TIMES how my day was. My day’s fantastic, now can you shut the fuck up and scan my bologna? I understand the recession deepened in South Florida, but harassing customers with politeness will not get Floridians to buy an extra roll of toilet paper. Florida’s a libertarian state. We are rude and like to be left the fuck alone. So take your extra toilet paper roll and shove it up your ass, Publix.
Love,
Mitchell
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