Sunday morning. Your mouth is drier than the Sahara desert, your head hurts from a Saturday of dancing and sipping on margs, and you’re desperately trying to forget the horror that was you, singing a cringeworthy rendition of Celine Dion to a bunch of strangers during last night’s karaoke sesh.
The only thing that will spare you from extinction? An ice-cold, blue Gatorade. You beeline through the CVS aisles, secure the bag, and head to self-checkout.
The kiosk reminds you to “grab your receipt” and you find yourself baffled at the concept of how one singular item can yield 6 whole feet of paper.
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