On Monday I went to the mall to partake in the wonderful and torturous tradition of christmas shopping. I don’t really like the mall, but I was having a pretty good day so far. For one, I was wearing this new fitted jacket that I had bought earlier in the week and made me feel quite skinn-ay. For two, I figured on a Monday afternoon I would not have to battle enormous crowds of other holiday shoppers. This seemed promising.


I was like, “alright, let’s do this!” And I set off cheerfully.


But after a couple hours, I had aged considerably. It felt like many a year I had been wandering this accursed desert, this land devoid of any hope.


If I had to see one more piece of clothing, I was sure my eyes were going to rot out of my head.


And yet, I had not yet bought a single thing. (This is me in various stages of fatigue/beardiness. Also may be interpreted as my various attempts to draw just one of this stage.)

img_7115Finally, when it seemed all hope was lost and I must surely perish, I found myself in an oasis of not-retailers. In my famished state everything was a blur, but I could tell that there were people holding pieces of chicken on sticks. I did not care that I was a vegetarian. I was dying.


There was terryaki chicken on a stick, fried chicken on a stick, curry chicken on a stick… Slowly I revived, and as my senses returned to me, I realized these chickens on sticks were in fact samples.


I had made it to the food court.


There was also a


This reminded me of one of my ex-boyfriends who would always order a burrito bowl instead of a burrito. He was manorexic and constantly pulling up his shirt to oggle his stomach in the mirror. This was very annoying. Only I am allowed to do that.


Anyway, then my eye alighted on something delicious that I did desire to eat. Pearl milk tea. <insert sound of angels singing>


I got in line for PMT, but as I waited and looked around the food court, I realized that something was terribly wrong…



Let us pause for a minute to contemplate the systematic eradication of cinnabon from lands where it once used to be plentiful, ie. the airport and mall. Seriously, who the fuck is messing with my cinnabon supply? Sure, I had promised myself not to eat a cinnabon, but what I really meant was, “Damn, I can’t wait to eat a cinnabon.” I love me some cinnabon. In Chicago I used to walk to the train station just to get cinnabon. I neverrrr took a train out of there, but cinnabons are a rare breed now–sometimes you need to go to exotic locations to find them. Anyway, don’t think I haven’t noticed, cinnabon murderers (Michelle Obama?). I’m on to these disturbing vanishings.

Right, so the point of this story is that there was no cinnabon, and so now I had to figure out what to eat. For some reason the PMT place also sold sandwiches, so that is what I ate.


Now as I finished half of the sandwich I was feeling pretty happy.

img_7125I was also feeling somewhat superior as I looked around at my other food court compatriots. There they were, having fallen victim to Panda Express and pizza and McDonalds and milkshakes, and here I was, having eaten just half a sandwich.


Then I looked at the other half of the sandwich.


What was I going to do with half a leftover sandwich? I wasn’t going to carry it around the mall the rest of the day, look at the size of my purse:


Maybe I should eat it…

I ate it.

img_7130Ug too much. I needed something to wash it down. But there was no MT left, just P. I ate some of the tapioca pearls. Even as I did it, I was like this is not logical. Why am I eating rubber balls if I am thirsty?


After that I was kinda fat. So much for my food court superiority. And fuck the form fitting jacket.


There were mirrors everywhere. I could not escape.


Also there were sexy mannequins that were at the same time both more curvaceous and skinnier than I. They had impossibly long legs and feet that were also high heels and confusing yet presumably fashionable arm poses.


The mannequins were like, “Fuck you, you will never be as sexy or have as cool clothes as we do, even though you are a human and have hair and facial features. Also, your feet will never be high heels.”

img_7136I was like, “No, fuck YOU, mannequins!” But that was not a very good come back.


Then I had to go pee, but it is impossible to find your way anywhere in a department store, even though there are thousands of signs pointing out directions.

img_7139Even if you can follow the arrows to where the bathroom is supposed to be, good luck finding it. The area with the sign actually denoting where it is will probably look something like this:

img_7140But despite these obstacles, I did find the bathroom. There was a homeless woman living in it and water on the ground from over-flowed toilets. img_7141Let us pause again to consider another matter. Why is your path in to the bathroom of a department store always like this:


But the path out is like this: ?



Right, so then I was shopping some more. For some reason I was attracted to Doc Martins


I felt like I could kick a lot of ass while wearing them. And I had some ass-kicking opportunities in mind…IMG_7147 IMG_7145IMG_7146 I also had a moment with a leather skirt. It started with me mentally mocking it,


but then I was like


… alter-ego sexy bad girl Ali who rides around on motorcycles and wears ass-kicking boots and also has larger boobs? (Illustration would be more effective if I hadn’t drawn a bicycle.)


The skirt did not fit.




I’m not one of those people that says guys and girls can never be friends, but I do think that every once in a while there arises a moment of uncomfortable one-sided romance. At these times, my natural reaction is a genius ploy of blind panic and an attempt to correct this imbalance by being twice the amount of “normal friend” to their abnormal. In theory this means it all evens out. In practice it means I act completely absurd. How unusual…


Case Study #One:

The situation–

Saying goodbye, but for some reason he won’t leave and instead gazes deeply into my eyes.

My response–

Upon assessing the linger and entering my initial stage of panic, I punched him in the shoulder. (I’ve seen this done in movies to a very desirable hey-ole-buddy-ole-pal effect.) Following this up with a slightly off-timed and manically cheerful, “Well, see you around!” I then backed away slowly, avoiding eye contact.


Resembling to the advice I’ve been given for encounters with wild animals, this tactic seemed fairly successful. The arm punch was weird though.


Case Study #Two:

The situation–

Saying goodbye (hm this seems to be a dangerous time). Hug is strangely cheek-squeezy. Ie. I’ve never had my cheeks pressed so hard to someone else’s cheeks in my life. (This makes me suspicious.) Then pulling back, he cups his hands around my face and says, “Look at you. You are so beautiful.”

My response–

Feeling awkward, I scramble to prove that this is something normal friends do. Reasoning that if I can do it to him without being romantic, it will reverse-logic prove that we are totally chillin in an equally friend-like relationship, I take his face in my hands and say, “Look at you, you are so beautiful.”


This did not help the awkwardness of the situation.


Final results of the study:

Upon reflection, quickly extracting oneself from the situation seems to be the best technique. Out-weirding the weird did not go over so well.


Does anybody has further case studies or escape tactics to report? Science for the good of friendships everywhere…

People of the world, I am unemployed. If you ever are in a similar situation, I suggest you take my advice and avoid the Craiglist “All Gigs” section. It will not make you feel too excited about your prospects.

So far what I am qualified for:


Screen Shot 2013-08-15 at 2.54.47 PM  Screen Shot 2013-08-15 at 2.54.56 PMIt’s in the back of his car, so it’s perfectly safe. This ad sparked the debate between me and L as to whether you had to caress your own feet, or if he wanted to be the one caressing. I’m not really sure which would be worse. On one hand, I think it would be difficult to think of 15 minutes worth of foot caressing activities. I’m not sure I have the imagination for all that. On the other hand, if he was doing the caressing you could pretty much just sit back and chill out for 15 minutes of psychological trauma. Worth 50 bucks? I’m not quite there. Yet.


Screen Shot 2013-08-14 at 10.19.11 PM

Just kidding. Once again I am held back by not possessing a penis. Damn glass ceiling.


Screen Shot 2013-08-15 at 2.53.19 PM  Not sure what this would entail. But I do have a driver’s license.


Screen Shot 2013-08-15 at 2.54.17 PM


The only time I’ve ever wanted to look old enough to be someone’s mother. This smacks a bit too much of the plot of one of those “be careful what you wish for” movies. Im slightly concerned I’d have to get a magical chinese fortune cookie or pee in a fountain or whatever to turn back to my glamourous* youthful self.

*said with sarcasm. observe title of post.


Screen Shot 2013-08-15 at 2.53.52 PMIs this a real thing? I would think this was just a wife publicly taunting her husband, except that the ad has appeared several days in a row. I believe an adult Baby Huey does exist. Sweet, shy, docile, very feminine, in diapers, and impudent. Sounds like a bit of a complex personality.


Well that’s it. The job hunt continues. When did good old fashioned prostitution go out of style?

This is a cruel world.


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