7-11 is trash. I know that isn't a groundbreaking statement, but for the sake of argument, I felt it was necessary to state that before we continue. That convenience store has given me nothing but trouble, and yet I return. It's like an ex who drove you insane but still calls occasionally, offering...uh, slurpees.
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7-11 could never begin to compare with Wawa because Wawa is just too wholesome, even the ghet-to Wawas I inhabit. Wawa makes the hoagies, bakes the doughnuts, milks the cows, and has fantastic lemonade tea. I'm getting off the point. Let me repeat: 7-11 is trash.
It's trash, but I still go. It's the home of many a bizarro energy drink. Truck-stop snacks line the aisles, offering a smorgasbord of midwest-style hick feed. Hostess cakes aplenty, their wax paper and flour waft is almost enough to send me screaming. Day-old hot dogs grill menacingly, biding their time until sweet escape is theirs. The free chilli and cheese nod to each other, knowing the truth about getting what you pay for.
The front milk is laughed at by the rear milk, because their time on this planet is finite. Soon, they will be taken away and fed to an infant, baked into something, or poured down the throat of a sweaty construction worker. Chalk it up to the callousness of youth. Rear milk doesn't realize their time is coming. They assume they will expire before they are purchased, dying of old age being preferable to being slowly consumed over a period of days...
It's a phenomenon that doesn't seem to phase the fountain drink/slurpee section, where a 24 hour rave is commencing. Available in many different sizes, colors, and flavors, they actually want to be consumed. Their sugar and caffeine content to be absorbed by late night clubgoers, the sodas do not want to be held back. They want to go to the party.
The ringmaster is a lean, wrinkled gentleman who speaks a brand of english I have yet to understand. He distributes lottery tickets and other fool's gold. He stands next to a sign that reads, "UNDER 40 MUST SHOW I.D.". It makes me wonder, how do they know how old you are if they haven't seen your I.D. yet? That is one crazy psychic nicotine pusher.
After retrieving my bounty, a hint of sadness always remains with me. I am satisfied, yet repulsed, because I know someday I will return. There is a Wawa down the street, but Wawa is like a spouse. Warm, loving, it's reliable, and comfortable. It will be there through the ups and downs. But 7-11 is like the transvestite hooker that does "that thing" you like.
Not that I would know, it just feels like it.