You usually work til about 7:00 but tonight you left at 6:00 to give you enough time to stop by the state-owned liquor store on your way home—the state-owned liquor store that closes at 9 pm, which you know because you go there constantly, after all, considering the state's monopoly on the business, there isn't anywhere else to buy whisk—guh?
You've turned the corner. The store's lights are out. It's 6:07 pm.
You approach the store. There is a sign on the door, printed on a sheet of white paper, that says that "due to weather conditions" the store will be closing at 7 pm tonight—annoying enough in its own right—but then (THEN!) someone at the store has morphed the 7 into a 6 with a sharpie because they wanted to go home at 6 pm instead—nevermind that due to weather conditions every adult in the neighborhood wants to buy a fucking bottle of whiskey and that this is the only fucking place to do that because of the fucking state monopoly on fucking liquor. (WHICH IS A LEGAL SUBSTANCE!) If fucking I-1100 had passed the neighborhood would fill up with non-shitty, owned-by-people-who-live-in-the-neighborhood, open-at-whatever-times-they-wanted liquor stores where an adult might be able to, say, buy a bottle of liquor at 6:07 pm after work in the middle of a fucking blizzard.
You stand outside the store, the snow blowing sideways into your face and blowing HARD, so each little snowflake hurts, feels like daggers to your eyes and cheeks and nostrils and the cracks in your chapped fucking lips. You already almost ate shit twice just walking the two blocks to the store, and now you are looking at a dark store and two employees with their backs to you while they count their tills because—well, they already bought their liquor, they don't need the store to be open anymore, they're going HOME!! You? You want some? Sorry, pal. The store's closed. Complain to the union. Complain to the legislature. Complain to the liquor control board. See if that gets you anywhere.