Chapter 5:
I'm Torn Between The Remedies For Everything
The Girl From The Grocery Store Across The Street Is (NOT!) A Robot, She's Just Incredibly, Incredibly, Incredibly WEIRD!
I probably fell asleep somewhere around the 9th or 10th emoji.
Whenever I didn’t understand one, I asked directly, got ellipses in response, and had to backtrack to re-analyze.
Almost like one of those RPGs with puzzles—if you’ll allow the comparison.
Falling asleep mid-conversation wasn’t great—not just because I was talking to her, but because passing out in the middle of a chat leaves a bad impression no matter who you’re talking to. I don’t think that’s just me. I think everyone who’s fallen asleep mid-convo and everyone who’s been on the receiving end agrees.
Even though I no longer had any reason to wake up early, my internal clock was still tuned to my old work schedule, so I didn’t get the luxury—that extremely nice feeling—of waking up at noon.
On the other hand, there were 46 unread messages when I woke up.
Depending on what kind of person you are, 46 unread messages might not sound like much. But considering I no longer had a job (and I’d probably be better off stopping reminding myself of that), and even though I had plenty of open chats, the last active one was from four months ago—those 46 messages could only come from one person.
Of the 46, three were question marks sent a few minutes after I presumably fell asleep.
The other 43 were from less than an hour ago.
43 messages sent in rapid succession.
43 messages that were photos of the cat that usually wanders into the store—from every possible angle.
Normally I’d wake up, lie there for a while wondering what the hell I was going to do with my life, pick up the bento my neighbor left, and eat breakfast while staring at the dead TV because I couldn’t afford cable anymore.
Normally.
I mean usually.
Okay, daily.
[Sorry, sorry, I fell asleep.]
[(¬_¬")]
[I already said sorry…]
[(¬_¬")]
[Duh… I’ll come after breakfast.]
[(¬___¬")]
[By the way, thanks for the visual cat encyclopedia. Didn’t know I needed one.]
[(ᵕ—ᴗ—) …]
[Did you name it yet?]
[… … … … Nyocery Store]
[lol that sounds more like the store than a cat name...]
[( °ㅁ°) !!]
The daily bentos the old lady left were mostly rice, a couple of boiled eggs, and some vegetables. Nothing fancy, and I didn’t expect it to be. After all, she was feeding me without doing that thing where people leave a note—which feels good for the giver but strips dignity from the receiver.
On the other hand, it didn’t look like 'leftovers from yesterday.' It looked freshly made, still warm but not reheated. And today, unusually, there were a couple of pieces of meat.
I’m very good at very few things.
Very bad at far too many things.
Useless at everything else that doesn’t fit into the first two categories.
When it comes to the old lady, I’d put myself squarely in the last group—not because I don’t know how to say 'thank you,' not because I don’t know how to do it or don’t feel grateful that someone who doesn’t even know me is keeping me from starving, but because honestly I didn’t see it as an advantage.
I felt ashamed about it.
And that, without a doubt, was the truth.
After breakfast I’d wash the bento box and leave it at her door before—same as always—heading down to the store.
That in itself was a loop: I knew I’d have food every day, so I barely thought about getting a job no matter how empty my apartment was getting.
Now I had the attention of the person whose attention I wanted. That pushed the idea of working completely out of my head.
A loop is a constant repetition of something with no change.
That can be called a 'habit.'
A prolonged habit can be called a 'dependency.'
And again—dependency can be called an 'addiction.'
And the last one isn’t bad just for the obvious reason, it affects third parties.
Thinking about all this while heading to the store wasn’t smart—I could’ve easily gotten hit by a car for being too deep in my head. Luckily this neighborhood rarely has traffic.
I didn’t even notice the wet sidewalk or the fact that it was way beyond 'just raining.'
If this had happened yesterday, her pseudo-movie scene would’ve had a touch more realism.
Actually, I still would’ve found it absurd.
“So… did you make it your pet or are you making a documentary?” I asked, peering under the shelves to see if I could spot the cat.
“9.47.” She placed the pack of cigarettes on the counter.
“How about a ‘hello’ or something? Huh?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.
“9.48.” As always, eyes on her phone.
“Are you raising the price in real time!?”
“Is that a question or rhetorical?”
One of the downsides of being unemployed: if you have money and spend it, there’s no way to get it back.
The downside of an addiction: it forces you to do the first and reinforces the second.
In other words, I only had one or two bills left.
“Uuh…”
“9.49.”
“Hey, hey, wait… it doesn’t count if I’m inside the store.”
“The customer is not always right—they have the money…” She lifted her elbows off the counter when she noticed the cat had jumped up. “And in your case…” She glanced at my wallet. “…you have neither.”
“Wow, so I bothered coming in the rain just to become a punching bag, huh.”
“Exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not exaggerating. You charge whatever you want, cut a date off out of nowhere—”
“Hypersensitivity from withdrawal?” She asked, here eyes were back on her phone.
“I’m not in withdrawal. I don’t even need to buy cigarettes. I may be addicted, but I’m not an idiot.”
“You can prove it if you want. If that makes you feel better.”
“I buy more than I smoke, duh…” I put my wallet away.
“Then why did you come?”
“You wanted me to come.”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it.”
“You misunderstood.”
“Fine… fine…” I rubbed my temple. “Let’s suppose I misunderstood—which I definitely didn’t…”
“Let’s suppose, then.”
“I just felt like coming.”
“And what were you planning to buy?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“So?”
“Do I need to draw you a diagram or something? I just wanted to come, period… damn, it’s not that complicated…”
I noticed her shoulders tense slightly before she answered—maybe because Nyocery Store used her legs as a springboard to jump down to the floor.
“Just… to hang out?”
“Yeah, Sherlock, just to hang out.”
I pulled out my phone, which had vibrated the instant I finished speaking.
[(,,>﹏<,,)]
“What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t you just talk?”
She watched me for a moment, then went back to her phone.
[(ㆆ_ㆆ)]
“Come on, you’re less than a meter away…”
["( – ⌓ – ) !!!]
Whenever I didn’t understand one, I asked directly, got ellipses in response, and had to backtrack to re-analyze.
Almost like one of those RPGs with puzzles—if you’ll allow the comparison.
Falling asleep mid-conversation wasn’t great—not just because I was talking to her, but because passing out in the middle of a chat leaves a bad impression no matter who you’re talking to. I don’t think that’s just me. I think everyone who’s fallen asleep mid-convo and everyone who’s been on the receiving end agrees.
Even though I no longer had any reason to wake up early, my internal clock was still tuned to my old work schedule, so I didn’t get the luxury—that extremely nice feeling—of waking up at noon.
On the other hand, there were 46 unread messages when I woke up.
Depending on what kind of person you are, 46 unread messages might not sound like much. But considering I no longer had a job (and I’d probably be better off stopping reminding myself of that), and even though I had plenty of open chats, the last active one was from four months ago—those 46 messages could only come from one person.
Of the 46, three were question marks sent a few minutes after I presumably fell asleep.
The other 43 were from less than an hour ago.
43 messages sent in rapid succession.
43 messages that were photos of the cat that usually wanders into the store—from every possible angle.
Normally I’d wake up, lie there for a while wondering what the hell I was going to do with my life, pick up the bento my neighbor left, and eat breakfast while staring at the dead TV because I couldn’t afford cable anymore.
Normally.
I mean usually.
Okay, daily.
[Sorry, sorry, I fell asleep.]
[(¬_¬")]
[I already said sorry…]
[(¬_¬")]
[Duh… I’ll come after breakfast.]
[(¬___¬")]
[By the way, thanks for the visual cat encyclopedia. Didn’t know I needed one.]
[(ᵕ—ᴗ—) …]
[Did you name it yet?]
[… … … … Nyocery Store]
[lol that sounds more like the store than a cat name...]
[( °ㅁ°) !!]
The daily bentos the old lady left were mostly rice, a couple of boiled eggs, and some vegetables. Nothing fancy, and I didn’t expect it to be. After all, she was feeding me without doing that thing where people leave a note—which feels good for the giver but strips dignity from the receiver.
On the other hand, it didn’t look like 'leftovers from yesterday.' It looked freshly made, still warm but not reheated. And today, unusually, there were a couple of pieces of meat.
I’m very good at very few things.
Very bad at far too many things.
Useless at everything else that doesn’t fit into the first two categories.
When it comes to the old lady, I’d put myself squarely in the last group—not because I don’t know how to say 'thank you,' not because I don’t know how to do it or don’t feel grateful that someone who doesn’t even know me is keeping me from starving, but because honestly I didn’t see it as an advantage.
I felt ashamed about it.
And that, without a doubt, was the truth.
After breakfast I’d wash the bento box and leave it at her door before—same as always—heading down to the store.
That in itself was a loop: I knew I’d have food every day, so I barely thought about getting a job no matter how empty my apartment was getting.
Now I had the attention of the person whose attention I wanted. That pushed the idea of working completely out of my head.
A loop is a constant repetition of something with no change.
That can be called a 'habit.'
A prolonged habit can be called a 'dependency.'
And again—dependency can be called an 'addiction.'
And the last one isn’t bad just for the obvious reason, it affects third parties.
Thinking about all this while heading to the store wasn’t smart—I could’ve easily gotten hit by a car for being too deep in my head. Luckily this neighborhood rarely has traffic.
I didn’t even notice the wet sidewalk or the fact that it was way beyond 'just raining.'
If this had happened yesterday, her pseudo-movie scene would’ve had a touch more realism.
Actually, I still would’ve found it absurd.
“So… did you make it your pet or are you making a documentary?” I asked, peering under the shelves to see if I could spot the cat.
“9.47.” She placed the pack of cigarettes on the counter.
“How about a ‘hello’ or something? Huh?” I asked, reaching for my wallet.
“9.48.” As always, eyes on her phone.
“Are you raising the price in real time!?”
“Is that a question or rhetorical?”
One of the downsides of being unemployed: if you have money and spend it, there’s no way to get it back.
The downside of an addiction: it forces you to do the first and reinforces the second.
In other words, I only had one or two bills left.
“Uuh…”
“9.49.”
“Hey, hey, wait… it doesn’t count if I’m inside the store.”
“The customer is not always right—they have the money…” She lifted her elbows off the counter when she noticed the cat had jumped up. “And in your case…” She glanced at my wallet. “…you have neither.”
“Wow, so I bothered coming in the rain just to become a punching bag, huh.”
“Exaggerating.”
“No, I’m not exaggerating. You charge whatever you want, cut a date off out of nowhere—”
“Hypersensitivity from withdrawal?” She asked, here eyes were back on her phone.
“I’m not in withdrawal. I don’t even need to buy cigarettes. I may be addicted, but I’m not an idiot.”
“You can prove it if you want. If that makes you feel better.”
“I buy more than I smoke, duh…” I put my wallet away.
“Then why did you come?”
“You wanted me to come.”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it.”
“You misunderstood.”
“Fine… fine…” I rubbed my temple. “Let’s suppose I misunderstood—which I definitely didn’t…”
“Let’s suppose, then.”
“I just felt like coming.”
“And what were you planning to buy?”
“Absolutely nothing.”
“So?”
“Do I need to draw you a diagram or something? I just wanted to come, period… damn, it’s not that complicated…”
I noticed her shoulders tense slightly before she answered—maybe because Nyocery Store used her legs as a springboard to jump down to the floor.
“Just… to hang out?”
“Yeah, Sherlock, just to hang out.”
I pulled out my phone, which had vibrated the instant I finished speaking.
[(,,>﹏<,,)]
“What’s that supposed to mean? Can’t you just talk?”
She watched me for a moment, then went back to her phone.
[(ㆆ_ㆆ)]
“Come on, you’re less than a meter away…”
["( – ⌓ – ) !!!]
“Okay, enough of this nonsense. This isn’t funny. I need words—or do you have selective mutism?” I asked, planting my hands on the counter.
I probably sounded harsher than I meant to. I didn’t see it that way—I was just asking for an answer. That’s logical, right? Though tone isn’t defined only by the sender but also by the receiver.
Let’s say it continues the 'Schrödinger’s relationship' thing, but I don’t think you want me to explain that further.
She startled a little—not from the noise, I didn’t slam my hands down. Maybe I just moved too fast.
She simply stood up from her chair, walked to the bathroom in the corner of the store, and locked the door from the inside.
[(╥﹏╥)]
I probably sounded harsher than I meant to. I didn’t see it that way—I was just asking for an answer. That’s logical, right? Though tone isn’t defined only by the sender but also by the receiver.
Let’s say it continues the 'Schrödinger’s relationship' thing, but I don’t think you want me to explain that further.
She startled a little—not from the noise, I didn’t slam my hands down. Maybe I just moved too fast.
She simply stood up from her chair, walked to the bathroom in the corner of the store, and locked the door from the inside.
[(╥﹏╥)]
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