i go into my local liquor store and attempt to buy a bottle of vodka. the cashier asks to see my ID. i open my wallet and find a crumpled piece of cardboard that states that i am an official member of the american girl dolls club. the card is still valid. the cashier looks at me in confusion. “i go on the website every day,” i say monotonously. “i’m a very active member.” the aged mother behind me recognizes the card. she seems confused. “that club closed in 2006,” she begins. “my daughter used to go on that website when she was a kid.” her voice begins to waver as i stare into her eyes. my eyes are glazed over. my hands are trembling. the charms on my american girl dolls club bracelet tinkle with my movements. the music in the liquor store has stopped. “do you have a valid government-issued ID, ma’am?” the cashier whispers. i nod, gesturing to my american girl dolls club membership card. “this is the real government,” i whisper. my whole body is shaking. i receive a phone call. my ringtone is “i like your style,” produced by the american girl dolls company. i do not answer it. “can i take the vodka” i ask, but it does not sound like a question. it is difficult to hear me over the incessant upbeat tune of my ringtone. the cashier nods. “i like your style,” i croak as i place the bottle into my american girl dolls backpack. i exit swiftly.
Big Gay Dracula Does a Shitpost 