This Fucking Gal
The gal blocking the pickup lane while she 'just runs in'
She leaves the SUV diagonally in the fire lane, pops on the hazards, and disappears inside like blinking lights transformed illegal parking into concierge service.
Hazards on. Entitlement louder.
The gal blocking the pickup lane while she 'just runs in'. Hazards on. Entitlement louder.
She leaves the SUV diagonally in the fire lane, pops on the hazards, and disappears inside like blinking lights transformed illegal parking into concierge service.
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This Fucking Gal
She leaves the SUV diagonally in the fire lane, pops on the hazards, and disappears inside like blinking lights transformed illegal parking into concierge service.
Keep going
Same species, different habitat.
She has invented a one-car traffic jam.
This fucking gal is idling at the curb like the whole block is her waiting room.
The car stays running, the flashers stay on, and everyone behind her has to navigate around this improvised drop-off monarchy while she scrolls messages in peace.
The corral was right there, but apparently the hydrangeas needed a cart.
This fucking gal left the cart in the planter instead of walking it back.
She finishes loading groceries, wedges the cart into a mulch bed, and walks away like landscaping is just another accepted return system.
A water bottle on each one, like little tiny flags of occupation.
This fucking gal has occupied three machines with one towel and a dream.
She bounces between stations every seven minutes and gets offended if you touch the one with the Stanley cup on it because apparently that means reserved.