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On a cold winter day in June, I was at the supermarket, looking to the get some BBQ chips; now, these particular chips were on the top shelf, and the store in question was almost out, so they were all at the back. So, of course, I'm tall enough to reach the top shelf, but short enough so that I can't reach for the fucking chips.

I'm struggling for a good 5 minutes, until the totally shredded mid-20-something-year-old stock boy comes over and is like, "hey, kiddo, you need some help?" And I groveled in self-pity, before hoping down and being all like, "wh w- yes p- p- pwwwease UwU *bwushes* *eyes roll into back of head* *sloshes uvula*," admitting defeat. I did — in the end — get the chips. They were stale.

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