An excerpt from Goat Lips: Tales of a Lapsed Englishman, taken from tale 8, For the Love of Art.

I have always had a love/hate relationship with Home Depot. If it wasn’t for the mobile bratwurst cart out front, it would be hard for me to enter the parking lot and not feel overwhelmed by the task at hand. The fact that there is always more than one item or material that can be used for a particular job means the majority of my time in the store is spent jockeying for the attention of a dubiously qualified “specialist” clad in an orange apron.

To give the staff credit, they are nearly always friendly and try to be helpful. The problem is I can never fully grasp their rushed instructions. I feel guilty and pressured to hurry so as not to dominate the time of a person who is in such demand; a person constantly trailed by anxious customers, many of them clutching defunct pieces of hardware.

I think therapists around the world might consider recommending that anybody who is depressed, lonely, or feeling unappreciated should apply for a job at Home Depot.

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