I love the supermarket, I don't know why particularly. While a friend of mine enjoys nothing more than shopping for designer shoes whose price tag would match half one semester's tuition at the most expensive school in the Philippines (while grumbling about the social injustice of Pancake House's menu), my favourite past time is roaming around a nice big supermarket with a list haphazardly put together on various occasions (never on paper) which somehow managed to survive in my goldfish memory long enough to be transferred from potentiality to actuality via the medium of a nice shopping cart (not one of the possessed ones) and a bank balance safely above the minimum. Money is good.

Perhaps it's what I've always pictured as a very grown-up activity, shopping for the necessities of the week or the month. Maybe it's the potential for finding "THE ONE," as voiced by my Eggplant Story from ages back, or maybe it's just the banality of it all that pulls me back into the solid world from which my imagination always attempts to rescue me. My imagination is my prince charming. (That sentence works for me on so many levels... Those who have seen my dude-doodles can testify.)

But then again, it's probably my stomach walking.