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None Of This Nonsense, Please.
Aug. 26th, 2001 09:56 amA belief in Hell stipulates that (a) there is a God/Creator and (b) s/he is a child molester. Hell is a revenge fantasy created by an oppressed people and perpetuated by the urge to control people with the ultimate bogey man. It has no internal logic, no rational or scientific base, no support from doctrine, philosophy, near death experiences, or what I know to be true about the state of the universe. Hell does not exist.
That said, I really hate shopping malls. The typical trip goes something like this:
00:00 I enter the mall. My shoulders begin their slow process of creeping to my ears, and my voice carries a mild tone of hysteria.
00:02 Having finally found a directory, I am mapping out the quickest possible escape route.
00:03 Before I can get out the door, I am dragged into a store of some kind, usually for clothing.
01:20 I give up on finding a competitively priced shirt that doesn't look exactly like every other shirt in the mall. I begin doing comedy routines with the display models and am asked to please leave the store and not come back.
01:21 Triumph! We are leaving!
01:22 No, we are not.
01:23 Another store indisginguishable from the previous store except that they use "sage" instead of "mint green."
02:14 We pass a shop selling the works of "Thomas Kindaid, Painter of Light." I must be restrained from clawing my eyes out. I start ranting to the effect that the presense of the above store is an indicator of everything wrong with the British and ex-British Empire. (I would say the world, but I sincerely doubt that Bantu tribesmen regularly purchase bad paintings of pastel lighthouses. If they do . . . well, I'm kind of impressed, actually.)
2:38 The rant has moved on to a scathing condemnation of conformity and materialism. Bystanders begin to get nervous, as though they expect me to pull a knife.
2:43 My companions attempt to ply me with a smoothie, which does not make me feel any better but manages to silence me for a while because it is difficult to talk with a straw in my mouth.
3:00 Sugar high hits. I start hopping around on one foot and/or windmilling my arms crazily.
3:02 The saleslady asks that I please buy something. I tell her that to do so would be to endorse a candidate that I do not support. It would send a message to the manufacturer that it is a good idea to keep produing crap, and it would tell everyone I met that I liked something I hated, which might make them buy me more stuff I dislike or convince them that these are good products, and. . .
3:03 The saleslady says something about "customer" and walks away very quickly.
3:14 I make it to a computer, knife, or video store, in hopes that my nerves will be soothed.
3:19 I am found in a foetal position in the corner, blind and mumbling.
3:22 We are finally out in the parking lot, about to head home. I vow never ever to return, and all of my shopping companions assure me that they never want to bring me along again.
But you see, I had these gift certificates. (No clue who thought that would be a good idea.)
In an attempt to stave off the typical panic attack, I brought along my sister Arielle and my cousin Max. Max did some brilliant chaplin-esque routines with a lady's jacket and a coathanger, and R.E.L. searched high and low for a top hat and consumed large amounts of sticky rice. Valancy was completely horrified and tried to pretend she wasn't with us.
I did not manage to spend the gift certificates.
That said, I really hate shopping malls. The typical trip goes something like this:
00:00 I enter the mall. My shoulders begin their slow process of creeping to my ears, and my voice carries a mild tone of hysteria.
00:02 Having finally found a directory, I am mapping out the quickest possible escape route.
00:03 Before I can get out the door, I am dragged into a store of some kind, usually for clothing.
01:20 I give up on finding a competitively priced shirt that doesn't look exactly like every other shirt in the mall. I begin doing comedy routines with the display models and am asked to please leave the store and not come back.
01:21 Triumph! We are leaving!
01:22 No, we are not.
01:23 Another store indisginguishable from the previous store except that they use "sage" instead of "mint green."
02:14 We pass a shop selling the works of "Thomas Kindaid, Painter of Light." I must be restrained from clawing my eyes out. I start ranting to the effect that the presense of the above store is an indicator of everything wrong with the British and ex-British Empire. (I would say the world, but I sincerely doubt that Bantu tribesmen regularly purchase bad paintings of pastel lighthouses. If they do . . . well, I'm kind of impressed, actually.)
2:38 The rant has moved on to a scathing condemnation of conformity and materialism. Bystanders begin to get nervous, as though they expect me to pull a knife.
2:43 My companions attempt to ply me with a smoothie, which does not make me feel any better but manages to silence me for a while because it is difficult to talk with a straw in my mouth.
3:00 Sugar high hits. I start hopping around on one foot and/or windmilling my arms crazily.
3:02 The saleslady asks that I please buy something. I tell her that to do so would be to endorse a candidate that I do not support. It would send a message to the manufacturer that it is a good idea to keep produing crap, and it would tell everyone I met that I liked something I hated, which might make them buy me more stuff I dislike or convince them that these are good products, and. . .
3:03 The saleslady says something about "customer" and walks away very quickly.
3:14 I make it to a computer, knife, or video store, in hopes that my nerves will be soothed.
3:19 I am found in a foetal position in the corner, blind and mumbling.
3:22 We are finally out in the parking lot, about to head home. I vow never ever to return, and all of my shopping companions assure me that they never want to bring me along again.
But you see, I had these gift certificates. (No clue who thought that would be a good idea.)
In an attempt to stave off the typical panic attack, I brought along my sister Arielle and my cousin Max. Max did some brilliant chaplin-esque routines with a lady's jacket and a coathanger, and R.E.L. searched high and low for a top hat and consumed large amounts of sticky rice. Valancy was completely horrified and tried to pretend she wasn't with us.
I did not manage to spend the gift certificates.
