Day in the Life of a Farmer’s Market Regular
It’s 6 a.m on Saturday morning. While some of you shmucks are sleeping off that gnarly hangover from last night and waking up in a pile of your own vom, I’m on my way to fill my temple of a body with 20-dollar spinach and keto-flour free-vegan bagels at the farmer’s market. Taking care of my health has really become my top priority while I’m getting my stressful B.F.A. in “Shapes, Colors, and Textures: Interweaving Colonial Narratives,” and I haven’t set foot in a big-box grocery store since BLM. Instead of millions of microplastics, I only want the gentle ungloved touch of a family-owned business contaminating my bok choy, and maybe salmonella if it’s ethically raised. Oh, can you not afford to spend 5 dollars per baby carrot? Too busy stewing in your own GMO-ridden vom to Venmo request your dad? I guess you just want to see little Jennie and her family starve and eventually have to start selling locks of her hair to people in China to make wigs for people undergoing chemo, you sick fuck. In other news, does someone want to take me out to dinner? I’m getting really tired of boiled and salted kale leaves.