I am fucking thrilled. It's time to go to the grocery store.

I wrote out my list and was off. I would have walked if it weren't for the abundance of
food I was about to purchase. I take my damn car.

My supermarket has finally started carrying vanilla flavored milk again. Probably only
for the next 30 days. Vanilla milk is ridiculous. All the cold intensity and smooth taste of
regular milk, combined with the sublime taste of vanilla. Unfortunately, it's absolutely terrible for you. I've only permitted myself to buy one two-liter portion for now. Even I have to treat myself.

The grocery store is filled with the type of people that disgust me. Some 50 year old
mess rounds the corner, the stink of perfume and whore arriving before her. Her boots
rattle their own zippers, jumping for attention, and her low cut shirt attracts with the
force of a fridge magnet placed on the far side of the moon. In a word, she looks used.
Recycled by a variety of men over a period that started too early and ends too late.
My head gets warm and my eyes start to tear, and I finally realize I'm staring dead into
this woman's soul as she is making eye contact with me, trying to dig up in her head
how she knows me and if my gaze is recognition or attraction. She picks the latter, and
approaches me.

As she talks to me, her body and face ooze the sour cream of sexual availability and my
sickness takes full control of my mouth as I spit appropriate dialogue to woo her softly.
At this precise moment, I realize it's not really about milk. It's about the freak show. The
gallery of whores and scum who rotate around here. Getting my fix and collecting a
sample of things to come as I collect more and more subjects and avenues.

My depths continue to rumble as I tune into what's happening in front of me. By the time
I do this, I have cemented myself into the good books of this walking train wreck. I wrap
it up by collecting her information, and leave. At the checkout, I'm imagining strangling
the light from the center of her eyes, barely even noticing the sight of my precious milk.


Drinking tea with Maria is so painful. Her attitude and face beam with optimism and
cheer, and as hard as I try, I cannot access the center of my brain that makes me
unable to autopilot through the bulk of the conversation. She must be evil, to trap me in
such an uncomfortable vortex of conversation, as if there was some reason I needed to
impress her. Her intelligence is lesser than mine, and her earnestness makes it a feat
for me not to smack her into hate or despair. But yet, I stay sat, and my face doesn't

"How are your parents?"
"A hundred dollars less rich every month, thats the extent of what I know."
"You don't talk to them?"
"No more than any other student. What about yours?"
"Still kicking, moved to Florida to get an early start on the golden years."
"I envy them."
"So do I." The conversation is dry and continues for what seems like the rest of my life.
By the time I come up with a reasonably good excuse (I picked the classic "writing a
paper") I'm ready to rip her face off, but instead we exit the cafe and I immediately start
walking the opposite way, but she stops me.
"So, we should hang out again."
"Absolutely!" Fuck me to death.
"Good luck with finals! And Peter, it was nice to see you again." She beams with
positivity and I echo back something similar. I can't tell if she likes me, wants to fuck me,
or wants to go shopping with me. Either way, I don't care. I need to continue my search
for new subjects.


I'm getting flustered.

I've found a new cam site. It's huge. It has a token system, users buy tokens to give to
the girls that they later trade back for cash. Ads aren't too aggressive. Public chats can
be disabled, private chats are available. And, cherry on the fucking cake, the front page
has not a top 20, but a top 50 ranking for its girls. And what a fantastic spread it is.

I spend the next hour combing over the top 50 girls, starting at 50 and working my
way up the quality level. I see a few candidates and open them in new tabs, but then I
reach #16, a petite American girl with bleach blonde hair, stockings, and far too much
makeup. I close all other tabs, and enter her page. Rosie.

She plays around with the animals in public chat for two hours while I lurk within the
member list consisting of 235 other beasts with ridiculous usernames all relating to how
good they are at sex. Some offer small bids of 10 and 15 tokens, and she removes
parts of her clothing that don't reveal a fucking thing I care about. She plays disgusting
club music in the background, and responds to random flirtations while I lose myself
in her high definition image on my plasma screen. Like an idiot, I lose track of the
sidebar, and someone makes a bid for her to remove her bra. 100 tokens. I spring into action and unsheathe my credit card, offering young Rosie 149 tokens to switch to a private chat. I would have offered 150, but I'm a salesman, and she's an idiot. Seconds begin operating like minutes. The public chat is frozen. Rosie's eyes show a faint glimmer of indecision behind the thick cake of mascara. Suddenly, without change, my sidebar erases itself and the 235 penis-related usernames disappear, and only mine remains. Rosie comes to life as she liquifies me with one simple little greeting:

"Hey, PistolPete706."

Jesus Christ. The conversation continues, until I finally work up the courage to click the Share Webcam button. It denies me. Rosie sings at me that I need to pay 50 more tokens to
be able to unlock it. I pay 51, like a slick bastard. Suddenly a tiny corner of my plasma is
mirroring myself and my room, and I immediately close it.

"You didn't tell me you were hot" she squeals. Suddenly my jets are cold as ice, and I
can feel my face grimace. I try to calm my rigid frame for the next 30 seconds, and sit
there frozen while Rosie slowly begins to realize I'm distant.

"No more tokens" escapes my treacherous mouth. My guise fails.
"No more tokens. I've given you enough. I need something in return."
"Okay...we might be able to work something out."
"Take off all of your clothes."
"That's gonna cost tokens."
"No it's not."
"What?" My cold statements of fact knock her off balance once again. I shift my gaze to
my second screen, and my laptop shows me Rosie's screen, and several other bordering windows display all the sensitive information one can possibly obtain from an IP address and the same shitty security everyone who casually uses their computer has. Ammunition.

"Your real name is Amanda Marie Palmer, you live on 143 Columbia Street in San Jose,
California. You have $1,036 in the chequing account you're looking at on your computer
right now." The amount of horror in her face remains the same as I see her close the
window on her screen, and I can't help but smile and not laugh, but huff. She notices, looking into the projected image of my face on her screen, then shifting her welling eyes into the depths of her webcam, attempting to somehow inject mercy into me through recorded video. "Take off your clothes, or I will take back my tokens." Her face freezes in its welling state, and as far as I can see, the tears don't manage to run down her face in a river of makeup.

It's not even midnight yet. I throw Rosie 99 more tokens for another hour, and I'll see
how I feel about a third.

The End

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