I got asked for my I.D. at the market. Now, you should know I don’t drink alcohol, I was buying kombucha. Yep, you heard that right… kombucha.
See, there are two types of kombucha from a specific brand I like: The original, brewed style that has a trace amount of alcohol in it (you don’t really get a buzz off it, but they have to label it as such), and the kind that has the alcohol taken out of it. The original brew containing alcohol tastes way better, which is the one I was purchasing, so when I previously said I didn’t drink alcohol, I was lying.
That’s what kombucha alcoholics do, we can’t be trusted.
I don’t like drinking regular alcohol, partly because of the after effects, but mostly because of the during effects. I don’t like having loss of control over what I say and do. Yes, I realize sometimes I write things that are, um… opinionated. Okay, so it’s more than being opinionated, I get it. Okay, so it’s not sometimes, it’s all the fucking time. No, I do not have Tourette Syndrome, but thanks for asking, asshole!
Look, it’s a compulsion, the truth comes spilling out and I lose all sense of composure, it’s like taking a few shots of Kamikazes. The difference is the delete button… now if I could just find it *snicker* *snort*
I used to drink. Looking back, I acted like a real asshole; a funny one, but an asshole nonetheless. Thank God I’m not like that anymore.
I’m just glad there was no such thing as Facebook and Instagram and all the other stupid social networking apps, my reputation would be fucked. Nowadays, my idea of having fun and partying is to walk through a puff of second hand smoke while drinking a kombucha, which, now that I think about it, is also fucking up my reputation.
It’s okay, people still think I’m a slut.
But back to getting carded: after the check out guy asked me for my I.D., I laughed, but he just looked at me with a straight face, so I said “You’re joking me, right?” to which he replied “No. It’s a new thing. We’re really cracking down on checking I.D.s now.”
… for kombucha.
This is ridiculous, I’m not even close to being underage.
I’m old enough to be his never mind how old I am I’m fifty two and so goddamn what?
Then the lady bagging my groceries asked me “Isn’t that a compliment though, to get asked for your I.D.?” and I replied “No, it’s not.” because it isn’t, and I’ll tell you why: I’m clearly well over twenty one year’s of age, and one can ascertain that just by looking at me. So if someone’s asking me for I.D., it’s because they were told they have to, not because I could be mistaken for someone younger, and so they ask me just in case, complimenting me in the process.
It’s not a compliment. You wanna compliment me? Tell me how hot I look, how you love older women, that you know I’m not a slut and you love how I tell it like it is, then tell me the fucking chocolates are on sale and what aisle they’re on!