My lastest literary attempt

It's a Stream of Consciousness narrative in the style of Virginia Woolf and James Joyce. Comments are welcome.

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A mere gallon of milk was all Loran needed, just one gallon, and it should have taken her less than ten minutes—ten minutes? five minutes!—to accomplish; in, out, and on her way. Who could have foreseen the sudden influx of mothers, each with a dozen screaming children and shopping carts which sizes might have rivaled the height of Khufu's tomb? It would seem fitting they should decide to check out the very moment the clerk at the "Express" line decided to take his break.

The frazzled middle-aged woman in Loran's lane smiled apologetically, blew a stray hair from her forehead and attempted to remain calm amidst the havoc. It wasn't this woman's fault Loran was stuck in the middle of a grocery lane, surrounded by whining and grubby hands, with no way to escape, so she couldn't be frustrated with—what did her nametag say?—Leigh. Poor Leigh.

Loran reminded herself that this was the precise reason she was going to college, so she wouldn't have to work a minimum-wage job eight hours a day at a dumpy 'Cross-The-Street-Mart, for an overly stern, overweight manager, with a comb-over, who, from the look of it in the next line over, was probably not deserving of a coffee mug imprinted with the title, "World's Best Boss." She pulled out her wallet, intent on inspecting its contents to simply pass time.

Her drivers license photo wasn't something she could complain about, though nearly five years old, and her signature looked little better than a six-year old's on that short, little line. Loran Elizabeth Bellows. It was pretty, and kind of rolled off the tongue, in spite of the male spelling of her first name. That always threw people for a loop; class roles, telemarketers, doctors, potential dates were always surprised to find a girl when they expected a boy when they read "Loran E. Bellows." Put it that way and it almost seemed almost stuffy, like a little, old British professor of literature, probably with a tweed suit coat, wire-rimmed glasses and bushy eyebrows.

Finding her wallet thoroughly shifted through, Loran turned to the magazine rack, Celebrity Magazine, flipping through the colorful pages donned with faces of beautiful people she could never hope to look like, interested in a particular article about a particular starlet recently starring in a particularly popular film. How does her hair curl like that, she wondered, cocking her head and studying carefully, until she sensed a particularly strong, stern, comb-overed fisheye burning into her forehead for blatantly using the magazine stand as a library.

An exhausting glance at Loran’s watch wasn’t comforting as poor Leigh informed her current costumer her credit card was denying her $200 purchase.