After I trip to the store to pick up one thing, I started thinking….

It starts innocently enough.

You open your phone. You scroll. You see one post that says, “Stores are running low.” Low on what? Doesn’t matter. Your brain immediately responds with: WE HAVE MINUTES.

Suddenly, you’re putting on shoes like you’re in an action movie. No plan. No list. Just vibes and fear.

The Grocery Store Transformation

The moment you enter the store, society collapses.

Normal people are gone. In their place? Cart warriors. Wide-eyed, gripping their shopping carts like chariots, scanning shelves for… something. Anything. Nobody knows what we’re supposed to buy, but we all agree we need a lot of it.

You see someone with six gallons of milk and think:

They know something. I don’t know what, but they know.

So you grab milk too. You don’t drink milk. You’re lactose intolerant. That’s not the point.

The Great Toilet Paper Myth

Let’s talk about toilet paper.

At no point in history has the government said, “Food will be available, water will be available, but please note: wiping is canceled.”

Yet here we are, judging strangers by the ply count in their carts.

One roll? Brave.
Twelve rolls? Prepared.
Forty-eight rolls? Either a prophet or a hoarder—hard to say.

And the panic logic is flawless:

“I don’t know what’s happening, but I refuse to be uncomfortable while it happens.”

Buying Things You’ve Never Used Before

Panic buying unlocks a special shopping mode where you purchase items you’ve never once considered in your life.

• Five-pound bag of lentils
• Emergency candles (for a house with 47 flashlights)
• Canned food with labels like “MEAT PRODUCT”

You don’t know how to cook it. You don’t know what’s in it. But it was there, and it was going fast.

The Checkout Line: A Shared Trauma

The checkout line becomes a silent support group.

No one speaks, but there’s eye contact that says:

I don’t know why I bought this either.

You leave the store with $400 worth of supplies and still somehow forgot the one thing you actually needed.

The Aftermath

You get home. You unpack. You stare at your haul.

You realize:
• You have enough snacks for six months
• Enough paper products for a small village
• Zero fresh food

You tell yourself it’s fine. You’re prepared. You’re calm.

Until you open your phone again.

And see someone post:

“Actually, it’s worse than we thought.”

You sigh.
You grab your keys.
You head back out.

Because if the world is ending, at least you’ll be stocked up on toilet paper, almond milk you don’t like, and enough anxiety to last forever.