3 Days Clean from Fenway Target: My Journey to Recovery
Today, I’m celebrating 3 days clean from Fenway Target. While I miss the comfort of the routine, I’ve never felt more in control over my own life. I am…. free? Maybe? I’m sorry, Pinky readers; this withdrawal period has led to a strange melancholy and reflection that I can only hope to capture in writing.
For those unfamiliar, Fenway Target is like a demonic beef wellington- heavenly bread on the outside, with a hellish meaty center. This 3-story mind prison represents the best and worst in humanity, and I have, in the past, fallen victim to its temptations. While my recent efforts in resisting have been fruitful, each day; I am lured from my dorm by the invisible beacon of the target logo.
Without intervention, the red and white rings consume my mind, putting me in a hypnotic state as I make the journey down Brookline. It’s not until I stumble through the heavy revolving doors that I regain consciousness.
Whenever I come to, I try to leave, but feel a sickening presence behind me– like if I turn around, I’ll be greeted by something utterly terrifying (a NEU student). So I hobble up the escalator every time to the capitalist hellscape of the second floor.
I attempt to avert my eyes as I pass the dollar section, experiencing temptations of Greed that I’m not strong enough to overcome. I caution my way to the personal care section, usually remembering that **shocker** I do actually need to buy something. Waiting way too long for someone to come open the locked-up toothpaste, I see my own reflection in the glass and feel shame. Why am I here every day? Why am I here at all? What is it all for? The employee snaps me out of it, and with a jangle of keys, frees my toothpaste from its theft-proof-prison. As I walk on, I wonder if the toothpaste ever misses its freedom.
Now faced with the home decor section, I’m tempted by the sin of Sloth to buy an unnecessarily expensive new comforter set to get me through the cold, cold winter. The aisles of pastel-colored blankets and pillows lull me into a false sense of security before reaching the backrooms-esque Boston sports memorabilia section. It’s always sparse, lonely, and honestly terrifying, but it's the only way up to the 3rd-floor escalator, and the eerie presence behind me from earlier grows ever stronger.
With cautious optimism, I tend to think the 3rd floor is going to be better. I mean, it couldn’t possibly be worse. But this momentary hope is immediately replaced by pure dread upon cresting the escalator: the holiday section. At this point, I’m more scared of what’s ahead of me than whatever was behind me, but the down escalator is halfway across the store and I have no other choice but to go forward. I begin to feel Wrath, but it is always quickly overtaken by pure Lust. Inexplicably, nothing makes you covet thy neighbor's wife like Christmas decorations a week into November. Evidently, the Gluttony keeps me going forward to the food section. With an endless array of snacks, this is actually the only comforting part of the whole store. Good job The comfort is short-lived, however, as I realize what comes next: checkout. Fenway Target. While nothing there is ever what I want, I have faith that it is what I really need.
Marked by lines that seem infinitely long at the most inexplicable hours of the day, the checkout lines only make me feel Envy. Envy of the other customers for picking the faster line, envy of the joy on some of their faces…. It drives me over the edge as I watch them step forward, leaving me behind to reflect on my life choices.
“This isn’t good for me” I tend to think to myself as I leave the store, likely with 1-2 of those dumbass seasonal birds in hand. There is a reason I liken Fenway Target to every deadly sin except Pride, because each time I walk out of there, I lose a little bit of my self-respect. Whenever I walk past the angry evangelicals on the streets of Boston, I consider seeking repentance. Maybe it is a problem? Maybe I need to turn away from my sinful life at Fenway Target. Yet, due to almost otherworldly urges, I always find myself coming back...
But I am proud to report that after much mental (and physical) restraint, I am 3 days clean. It’s still nearly impossible to stay away, but maybe I am getting better at resisting the supernatural pull of this hellscape. Maybe…
Update: As of the date of publication, the author has since relapsed. She left us with this message as she turned in her resignation as a staff writer: “Bullseye is calling. The birds are beckoning. I must answer.” As I write this, the tracker we install on all Pinky/Bunion writers puts her location at Fenway Target.
