Dear Costco,
You're evil. You're like that boy in high school with the leather jacket and bad tattoos who smoked when he was 13 and who my dad would rather cut his own leg off than see me date. Your shelves are lined with all of wine, fish, bicycles, books, underwear, nectarines and diamonds I could ever want. You taunt me with your low prices and subliminal messages, convincing me that buying 27 tubes of toothpaste is the only reasonable choice.
But I know the truth. I know you'll end me when I reach the checkout counter.
Dear Costco, I love you.
See you next winter when I'll need more toothpaste,
Meg
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