There was a time when I used to like you, as unlikely as it seems now. It was a long time ago now, when I was much younger, and ran around on much smaller legs. A long time ago when I actually ran. You were a world of possibilities, really. An infinite number of shops housing an infinite number of things that I could hold and gaze at and fawn over. You seemed humongous, a vast forest to be explored.
But now. Now that I’ve grown, you don’t seem as infinite, as if you stretched on for miles and miles, a never-ending road of blinding ceiling lights, and shiny reflecting floors.
I mean, it’s fine, I don’t need you to be infinite. In fact, I’m happy that you aren’t, because at least now I know that this world of crappiness that you house doesn’t actually go on forever.
Now when I visit you I want to walk away in the opposite direction, find a hole somewhere, and stay there while my minions do all my shopping. Except I can’t do that because I don’t actually have minions.
I mean, firstly you’re FULL of people. Not the best thing for an anti-social hermit, so that part’s really my problem. But all the rubbish that’s in you. I mean, really? What are they making these days? I don’t understand. In my day, the hemlines, whether they were way above, or way below the knee/midriff/calf/whatever, actually stayed one consistent length for the whole circumference. I mean, what is this fluctuation, this sine, cosine graph thing that shirts have going on these days? I don’t want a big flapping section hanging way past my bum, and then the front bit coming just below my chest. No. NO.
And then you have all these ridiculous t-shirts. Actually, it’s not so much the t-shirts that are ridiculous as the sayings on them. “I Wanna Be Famous”. “Cute Kitty”. “CUL8R”. “BRBLOL. I am not even kidding about the last one. Why does that even have to be on a t-shirt? Be right back?
Mall, your clothes make me want to flop down onto the floor and stay there forever. And they make me wonder if I’m not actually Bruce Banner, who stepped right out of Marvel comics and now has to try and control the immense rage that wells up whenever I visit you.
Also, Mall, you need to do something about the young girls’ section. I, as an older sister, cannot avoid that place and it pains me to have to wade through what looks like aisle after aisle of clothes that are apparently covered in Barney the Dinosaur vomit. Always the glitter. Always the pink. Why? WHHHYYY? My sister and I are forced to visit the boys’ section to get clothes in any colour that isn’t pink. Pink and glitter? That’s what defines young girls for you?
By this point, I generally want to do more than just flop down onto the floor. I want to flop down onto the floor and make great, keening animal noises, something loud and sorrowful to convey my despair, so loud that they’ll have to call security to come drag me away and I will be known forever as the girl who cried over the abundance of pink and ridiculously sewn shirts. I might even make it onto the morning paper.
Maybe then, Mall, you’ll get your shizz together.