Happiness is a warm gun

Oh, sweet of sweets! When the Sag Harbor elite prance through the village shops wearing clean, white furs and carrying garnished change purses for purchasing cornichens and exotic chocolates, I can count on them making ways to my store, sifting through merchandise with cocked pinky fingers, and inquiring of the manufacturer's country of residence. They finally exit and I wonder where stands the fucking barn they were all born in? Can't they shut the goddamn door so I can stay warm and pneumonia-free?

God.

When I was eight, I was on my way to feeling bitter and sarcastic toward customers of all kinds.