The ice cream was my breaking point.

When I want it, I’m usually having a bad day. The locks made it worse.

Unbreakable. Comically large. Glittering. Silvery. Affixed to the top right-hand corner of the glass door. I could see the primo shit I was willing to shell out $10 for: the vanilla Häagen-Dazs. I had two options. Smash the glass with my forehead, or smash the big button to call over an underpaid, overworked employee at this understaffed Safeway. I chose “button. ” As I waited, I meditated on ice cream and grocery stores. What they’ve come to.

Breaking point is the wrong phrase. Breaking points are supposed to be an endpoint. But what choice do I have, Safeway? QFC? Trader Joe’s is fine—and the canned dolmas make for a banger lunch in a pinch—but I can’t subsist on snacks and quir

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