I had no idea he had such long arms

Back at the office. Listening to Boards of Canada over the terrible variable chatter going on outside in the hallway. Boards of Canada makes me feel like I'm in water but not wet. Smoooth. I brought in a stick of Nag Champa to perk up the scent of the room, though I may have to light it for a minute in private; it doesn't seem to be dying the scent of people and air conditioning at all. 
Malls are rotten. I am about to leave for four days to go to my cousin's wedding in Illinois, my home state. The stars of the wedding have no idea how much trouble I've gone to to dress for this thing. Malls are rotten. I have been in three several times, seeking wedding gear, countless shoe stores. Next time I will wear a sign: I am not your normal mall-goer; I do not want your help; I know it's your job, but do not ask me any questions or try to sell me anything, for that will only defeat you.

I walked into a shoe store. I was the only customer there. Immediately two salesgirls approached wanting to help me. I rejected them of course. Soon when I found a potential shoe for me I asked for my size. One girl went back to get it and while I waited for her the other one pounced. She ran to a gigantic green bag on the wall and said in enthusiastic bad acting: There's a bag I really want to show you! Yeah, I thought, because we're friends and you know what I like. Even when I sat there, mouth hanging open on my blank face, she ran to get the red version of the bag, then the yellow, throwing at me names of dssigners whose bags apparently these were modeled on, which I told her I'd never heard of. 

As I'm withdrawing and my face is becoming a rock, the girl comes out with shoes. She didn't just return with the shoes I had asked for; she returned with two other pairs of orange shoes, thinking they might work also. Nice try, and I really did appreciate the effort. But really, she didn't know my goal with these shoes and those she brought out fit neither my purpose nor my taste. I tried on the ones I had asked for, which didn't fit right. I played along, thanked them both for their efforts, and quickly left--

--as I passed through the doorway back out into the hallway a girl at a kiosk stopped me. Dammit. My brain was tired and irritated, leave me the fuck alone.

When I lived in Iowa City I sometimes went to the gigantic mall in the next town. In it was a gigantic merry-go-round and a John Deere play section for kids. Iowa, mind you. This was always a masochistic venture. Sometimes, if it was really crowded, I would turn right around and exit out the door I came in, and drive all the way back home. The people in malls in the midwest are different from those in New Jersey. Or maybe not. Maybe it's just the way they talk and dress and the rest is the same. Come to think of it, I probably scorn the midwestern mallgoers in the way that people scorn those who demonstrate traits they don't like in themselves, and scorn Jersey mallgoers in the way that people scorn people that just plain irritate them.

(p.s. I may have pms; I don't really hate everyone. Another time I might weep at the beautiful fact just that we all are alive.)

The title has nothing to do with the rest. My grandmother wrote this in an e-mail she sent me today, about my boy Mark. Naturally, I read it with perverse mind and had a good laugh. I still am.