Thievery Of Spite

When I get the feeling that I'm being directed to do something, I want to do nothing less than that thing. People online sometimes seem to command that I offer my two cents on some subject, or that I make a contribution of some other kind. God knows that I'm as eager as can be to voice my thoughts on any subject that might be put before me- I mean ANYTHING. You can't shut me up, and people know that. Nothing makes me clam up faster than the idea that I'm being ordered. The recipe for manipulating me into doing something is similar. When I'm brusquely told to not do something, my whole being becomes consumed with unrelenting desire to do it. People's suspicions can be very suggestive. It's interesting how it seems to work.

I happened to stop in at my local grocery store late at night on my way back one recently. There was nothing on my mind but investigating leave-in conditioners, as I'm getting more interested in maintaining my appearance and had just received some pointers from lady friends of mine who have been accustomed to doing so for far longer. When I set foot in the place, I was accosted by the lone cashier, who insisted that I leave my backpack in checkout aisle 6 before proceeding. My laconically-voiced consent masked my instant rage, and my mind turned on a dime to larceny. I thought to myself, the only way I can recover here is to steal something- anything- in order to walk away knowing I put one over on this guy.

I didn't really think he was more suspicious of me than anyone, and if he was I really can't blame him. A guy walks in with a big backpack at the end of the day's last shift, when the store is down to a skeleton staff? Sure, there's a security guard with no one to keep an eye on except me, but why take a chance? These reasonable thoughts were on the margins of my mind, but front and center was indignation that could only be assuaged by theft. Of course, I didn't do it. I just couldn't focus on my study of the store's hair products due to the wild swearing tear I went on in my head. I had been in a fairly good state of mind, and hadn't gone into the store to get out of the cold. I was looking for a product, and likely enough would have bought it if I found it. Well, I sure wasn't going to find anything in the jungle of plastic bottles that is the hair care section with my blood boiling like that.

You know, I don't recall them ever being so on edge in retail outlets back home. There, it's a business catering to a customer, and they get the idea that the customer ought to be comfortable and happy in order to better facilitate a sale. Here, that seems to take a backseat to security. One feels like a criminal sometimes, and so can I be helped for my impulsive desire to become one? Some trust would have been nice. I can't say he ought to have given it to me, but I wish he had been naive enough to, for I would have been one person to not burn him for it. I guess maybe I'll go looking for places to shop that are run by nice, kind-hearted rubes.