just tell me where to sign...

I remember once in high school, my mother had picked me up at the bus stop and as we were driving home, she insisted on stopping at the General Store.
Yep, Mill Valley actually has a general store.
Looking like absolute shit, I prayed we wouldn't run into a soul, much less anyone I actually knew.
Lo and behold, guess who was there looking cool and wonderful as usual.
Oh, just Rory, the guy I pretended I never had a crush on.
It's always when you look like absolute shit that you run into the Rory's of the world.
This morning, having cleaned my flat and emptied my fridge of it's moldy contents, I headed out to Ghetto Safeway.
Ladies, you know that bra you have that's your total emergency bra? The one with only the right side still in possession of an underwire? The one that's faded and old and should have been thrown away when Willie Brown was still Mayor?
Yeah, I was wearing that under my oldest college sweats. I don't think I'd even brushed my teeth.
I know, I know. Sexy.
At least I had the presence of mind to slap on some lip gloss from the depths of my handbag as I left Zoe a message detailing just how hideous I was (am) and how I was certain I was that I'd run into Gavin Newsom or George Clooney or god forbid, Rory by the freezer aisle.
Having finally parked, I hid my head down and attempted to avoid those dreadful people that try and make you sign petitions always loitering by the front doors of grocery stores.
I mean, my God, who even makes eye contact with these hippies?
And then, I realized. That hippie? With the clipboard and pen? Shoving it in the faces of poor, happless Saturday morning shoppers?
Yeah, it was Paul...