The Place Where Self Control Goes To Die

I don’t think there’s any sort of financially responsible sentence that starts with “I’m going to Target.”

It’s a magical place,

a vortex of sorts,

full of kitchenware, and pillows and socks that go up to your knees,

and all of the “human” necessities, like soap and antacids.

If there was an apocalypse,

I know where I would go.

I would wrap myself in a men’s oversized sweatshirt and Hanes sweatpants while simultaneously eating cheese puffs,

and master the art of home decorating

as I built myself a house fort in isle 7.



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