Chapter LXXV: Mall Rat

I've spent about 10 hours* at the Mall this week, more mall-time than in the previous two years combined. It was fun at first with all the sights and sounds, but, like a James Joyce character, I was soon disillusioned. The place quickly revealed itself as a meretricious Temple of Consumerism... Each store is a chapel attended by stylish teenage acolytes, where I make burnt offerings of my soul to the steel and plastic idol on the countertop. It gives me a slip of paper in return.

A young woman walked past me with a Mastercard's worth of Indulgences in her shopping bag, trying to buy her way out of a mental Purgatory created by TV ads and magazine covers. Far from the oasis it claims to be, the Laguna Hills Mall is just a wasteland within a wasteland. Orange County sucks (the life out of me).

I guess it's good that I got the jeans situation taken care of, if you know what I mean. Made a goodly sized dent in the short-sleeved polo situation too. The t-shirt situation's been ground into the dust since July, but then again, you can never have too many t-shirts.

Strangely, I was mistaken for an employee twice on the same day. First, at American Eagle, where a man wanted to know if the "I don't mind a little junk in the trunk" shirt was available in XL. I had seen one on the rack a minute ago, so I pointed it out to him. The second time was at a bracelet kiosk in the middle of the concourse. A pubescent white girl comes up to me, points at something, and asks, "Do you have these but like without these things you know what I mean just like you know..." I listen to her politely for about half a minute, with that look of understanding which is my secret code for I have no fucking clue what you are talking about. This was useful in my French class, where the professor only called on people with looked confused, since they "need the most practice." Anyways, when I tell the girl I don't work there, she apologizes effusively: "Oh."

Stupid things I thought about today: (1) Why are they called 'missiles' if the idea is to hit something with them? They should be called hittles. (2) One of my quondam roommates works at the physical headquarters of tennis-warehouse.com. I told him the company should change its URL to tennis-warehouse.net, for obvious reasons. He was not amused.

School needs to start right NOW.

*At least half of this was spent in the bookstore.