by Uncle Farkus

Mallrats

My uncle has a thing for groping the mannequins at Victoria’s Secret. I’d be lying if I said I had never wanted to touch their boobs too. Usually I go to Barnes and Noble across the way to steal Kanye West albums to sell at the flea market on weekends.

I’m so bored. Going to take a seat and tweet.

Every now and then, the same old man passes by my bench. A walker. I assume he wants to live until he is one hundred seventy-six. I hope he dies sometime in the next four-ish years via an accident involving zoo animals. Escaped Ostrich Attacks!

That woman has a camel toe. I want a pretzel.

Pakistani kid covered in acne put cinnamon on my dough. He may or may not be a homosexual. Some man claiming Obama was born in Africa just tried to give me a pamphlet. I dropped my pretzel on the ground. Acne kid gave me another for free.

I think he likes me. The fountain—make a wish.

There goes a quarter. Three fat women taking up the entire aisle. So slow. Trying to get to H&M to see if any new cute girls are working. Poop. Same girls as always. No reason to stick around for abuse. This place was so much more fun in high school.

So bored. Going to Best Buy to play with iPads.

Some teenage girl in mom jeans asking stupid questions. Some old lady buys a laptop for some reason. Wish come true. Watching the old hag walk out the door towards the Honda. Sneaking up behind. Whack in the back with a cane for kicks.

This trip wasn’t a bust. $700 bucks on Craigslist.