To be clear, my groceries never bothered me at home, because I could just close the door to my cupboards and, like magic, look like a real person who knew how to feed himself. The only time my groceries were actually shameful was in the checkout counter, when I piled my boxes and cans onto the Conveyor Belt of Truth and stood in judgment of Cashier Lady Doris. Back home, I could hide my shame, but Doris saw me for what I really was: a soft, smelly sack of pizza, beer, and whatever that third thing was (vegetables, maybe? That doesn't sound right) who, through the dark magic of youth, hadn't collapsed and died from malnutrition in the past week.
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Did you know vitamins aren't just a candy company with a Flintstones license, but something you need to live?
Until one day (and it wasn't even that long ago) I loaded my purchases onto the conveyor belt and saw ... well, beer, yes, but also tomato paste, and raw meat, and vegetables that weren't even in a package. That's the difference between the stuff I used to buy and actual groceries. My purchases were no longer a collection of individual meals, but items that could be assembled into a meal, at a later date, by me. And that's the essence of maturity: sacrificing convenience and instant gratification (a quick, frozen meal that will make you feel shitty later) for long-term satisfaction (something you have to put effort into cooking but tastes good and won't launch an insurgency against the oppressive regime of your digestive tract).