The Reject Shop

I feel empowered every time I set foot in a Reject Shop. «Why?» I hear you ask– «is it the multitude of tools you can buy to make you feel as if you are a chick who knows how to adjust a wrench?» or, «Pray tell– is it the plethora of pet accessories that remind you that as a woman you make your own choices about whether or not you want to bring children into this over-​populated planet when you can just adopt an abandoned mongrel from the RSPCA?»… or could it be the fabulous range of washing baskets and similar receptacles that allow you to embrace your traditional role in an aesthetically pleasing manner or the many flavours of incense that will smoke out the scent of failure?
Actually no it’s none of these things, thanks for reminding me of the fragility of my existence though. It’s because I spent a few years in Tassie as a teen and «reject» was frequently bandied around as an insult. (I know, harsh right?) and by stepping into a reject store i feel like Richard Pryor reclaiming the N-​word (well OK maybe i’m exaggerating a TAD for effect)… anyway the rejected items on sale are cheap and awesome. How’s that for a statement?