Picture it: Houston, January 2017. An innocent yet devastatingly handsome customer, on his way to a statewide leather competition, ambles into the Montrose Forge for some last-minute purchases.
Salesclerk: “Buy stuff.”
Customer: “I did buy stuff.”
Salesclerk: “Buy more stuff.”
Customer: “No. I bought enough stuff.”
Salesclerk: “But it’s my job to sell you more stuff. Do you need socks?”
Customer: “You know, I used to have these really cool, gray Nasty Pig socks, but I wore holes in them.”
Salesclerk: “Oh, they discontinued that line, and we sold out of them.”
Customer: “Ah. So I guess you won’t be selling me more stuff.”
Salesclerk: [pulling gray socks out of fucking Hammerspace] “Except for this one last pair…”
Customer: “SHUT UP AND TAKE MY MONEY.”
Readers, that customer was me. And that salesclerk [dramatic pause] was Nuke Willam Belli.
And we’ve been siblings ever since. The End.
Marjorie's Forgeries 
One thought on “You would see the biggest gift would be from me, and the card attached would say, “Thank you for selling me socks.””