Things Called Malls

There is a mall, and I went to it. It was a big collection of shops. Like a strip mall, only all indoors. Puzzling, but true. And the security people say it's not ok to ride your bike inside, even though it's a long way between stores. There were fat people and ugly people, and most everyone looked the same. I quickly realized that my quest for obnoxiously loud dress pants was best pursued online. Pants at the mall only come in three colors: blue, khaki, and yawn.

I amused myself with private performances. I did one on imaginative aristocracy, which mostly consisted of imagining that all the people in the mall were my peasants on a festival day, come to the specially constructed communal center to buy their annual supplies and find wives. Also did a scatological investigation of arab-western cultural juxtaposition, which involved standing on the seat and squatting arab-style. It left satisfyingly inexplicable footprints on the seat, which paired nicely with the imaginary mathematical formulae I scrawled on the toilet paper. I did some minor ogling too, but it had little artistic merit.