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.)
Finally, 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…
WHERE THE HELL WAS CINNABON?
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.
I 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.
Ug 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.”
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.
But 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. Let 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
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.