runaway raisins

You've seen it before: leftovers at a self-serve restaurant, cans on the roadside, gum on the street. I never cease to be annoyed with people who believe themselves above putting their trash in its place, and do my darndest to let my thoughts be known via scowl or raised eyebrow. Come on people, make an effort.

Confession, though: last week that person was me. It started off innocently enough, as I walked home from a late night volleyball match. Realizing my stomach could really use a little something to tide it over, I popped into a deli and came out with a six-pack. Of raisins, that is. I finished off a mini box a block later, tossing it toward a garbage can as I reached for a second. Yes, toward, and I timed that with a gust of wind you wouldn't believe. The next thing I knew, my raisin box was whipping across the street. I started quickly after it, but stopped in my tracks at the sight of oncoming traffic. I stepped back on the curb, and Sun Maid was lost in the night. And people scowled at me.