So, I’m in the desert. Middle of the afternoon. It’s hot out. I’m walking to the smoke shop because I want to see if they have these nicotine pouches I like. I figure if anyone would have them a smoke shop would.

I get there, and the guy behind the counter has got on a jacket with the canadian maple leaf on it. Got a red beard to match, too. I ask him if he’s got any ZYN pouches, cinnamon flavored to be exact. He says all they’ve got are cigarettes but there’s a 7-11 that carries them three miles down the road. I tell him I’ll just walk there. He tells me be careful. I shrug it off.

I’m no more than a mile and a half into my walk and I start sweating profusely. Could be a black dickies t-shirt wasn’t the best choice for this unforgiving climate. The only shade in sight are the dark patches under the palm trees. I know I look like a lunatic to every driver that passes me because I’m walking from Palm Tree to Palm Tree, pausing for a few seconds before carrying on. I am on the verge of turning back and I’m overcome with sheer panic at the realization that it would not only be same distance back to the condo that it is to the 7-11, but possibly even further. Despite having serious doubts about my physically arriving at my destination, on we go.

It is by nothing less than sheer fortitude that I arrive at the 7-11 in question. I grab a Gatorade, stagger to the register and I spot what it is I’m looking for. I ask the cashier, a grouchy and squat old woman for one of those red-and-white cans they got behind the counter. I pay for it, step outside and pop one into my mouth. I’ll tell you, a dry mouth and pouch of nicotine salts doesn’t produce the best flavor, but regardless, I’m awash with relief. I slam my Gatorade, toss the empty bottle into the trash and bask in my moment of glory. It was hell to get here, but it wasn’t for nothing. I feel somehow stronger than I did on the journey here, and make it back to the condo with relative ease.

Once I get back to the condo I sit down by the pool and take the can out of my pocket. There’s a sour taste that hasn’t left my mouth since the store and I’m left thinking the Gatorade was the culprit until I see the date on the bottom of the can. Expiration date? Christmas of last year.

That is when I realized that this entire journey was pointless. Much like this story. Happy Monday.