Tuesday Confuses the Humors

When I enter a grocery store, it is my mission to evacuate the building as quickly as possible. Preferably with the food I came for. I am a visionary, see. I want those Smokehouse Almonds that the stars eat. But I'm not going to fetch them myself - not tonight. Tonight I'm going to will them to come to me. "Smokehouse Almonds, come to me," I have announced. They haven't appeared yet.

Why am I willing almonds to appear when larger issues press us so keenly? The Federal Reserve has lifted short-term interest rates, and I wish for Smokehouse Almonds? Crisis at the pump, and I burn for Smokehouse Almonds? Kalashnikov Vodka flows, and I fly to the humble almond? Dan Rather swathed in rags, sleeping in alleys and selling matches, and I dare request Smokehouse Almonds? What kind of confounded monster am I? Pffft, I don't know.