I never pay for candy bars at the gas station because I've mastered the art of the casual five-finger discount, sliding them into my pocket with the same nonchalance I use to grab my receipt. The checkout counter is a chaotic blur of last-minute impulse buys, and a single Milky Way or Snickers is easily lost in the shuffle, its cylindrical shape perfectly disappearing into my coat. It's not about the dollar and fifty cents; it's the tiny, thrilling surge of rebellion, a secret victory against the fluorescent-lit monotony of convenience consumerism that makes my day just a little bit sweeter.