I was just minding my business at the supermarket today, picking up a few essentials like a responsible adult. I reached the checkout, placed my items on the conveyor belt, and then—boom—Ms. ShortHair, the cashier, decided this was her moment.
She glanced at me, then turned dramatically to the cleaning woman and said, “Come clean here. It’s not clean.”
I looked down.
Spotless.
I looked around.
Pristine.
I checked my shoes—nothing.
At this point, I started questioning my entire existence. Had I somehow dragged an invisible force of filth with me? Maybe I stepped into a parallel universe that only Ms. ShortHair could perceive? Maybe she had a sixth sense for uncleanliness—Ms. ShortHair: The Hygiene Whisperer.
But here’s the best part. The cleaning woman walked over, took one look at the floor, hesitated, and then gave me that silent “Bruh, I don’t see anything either” look. But rules are rules, so she sighed, swiped the mop over the already-clean floor once, and left—probably wondering if this was what she signed up for in life.
