Okay, so the boss over at the supermarket gave me a slip of paper with this address on it and told me to deliver these groceries. I rolled on over, rang the doorbell and – guess what? No one’s home. I guess that shopper never expected me to make it over here faster than she could. My wheels work extra smooth when I see ice cream in the cart.
Aaah, forget it. I can’t keep up this farce anymore. You people must have figured it out by now. I’m not working for the supermarket doing deliveries. It’s just a fantasy I like to live, because I like to think of myself as having some major purpose in life. The dreams of whooshing around the streets of Sheepshead Bay with pints of Haagen Dazs to protect just helps me cope.
In reality, I’m an imprisoned cart working for the building maintenance staff. Forget delivering groceries to the hungry. I just take orders from the porter and the super.