Live tweeting from the saddest mall ever
Live tweeting from the saddest mall ever.
I remember this place from my childhood. I have fond memories of its past glory. Tee hee. Like an ugly institutional kitch torture chamber such as this has ever had any “glory.” I could work with this building. Make people love it again, or for the first time.
How about this: if the city wants to fucking man up and try to take a fucking building on its land back from a big bully, don’t fucking tear down an old institution just to show how fucking ruthless you are. Take down the fucking cause of all our pain. This shithole of a mall. Look, there’s useful stuff in here. Recyclables. I bet a concerted effort to re-use every last morsel of institutional tile and glass could result in truly self-sustainable living accommodations that look like the quaint, yet technologically off-the-charts community of your wet little techno-dreams.
So, the “public” wi-fi doesn’t work here, either. It’s an 11mbps router, and I can’t get a DHCP connection. I must not have the proper operating system credentials. NO SPEAK FOR YOU! This is how censorship works now. Dur, how were we supposed to know (*wink, wink, nudge, nudge, evil laugh*)? Fuck your for profit shit. You’re all lazy and worthless.
Let’s look at your average food distribution property, shall we? They get their “food” from either Sysco or some regional proprietary distributor. Gas gets used. Lots. Who benefits from the “job creation” here, locally? Probably one, or perhaps a “team” of managers, paid just enough more than the slave labor to make them not quit, and a gaggle of go-getters willing to lie through their teeth over the draconian “regulations” the poor, necessarily socially excluded manager is required to enforce. Perhaps there’s a “good” owner, who shows up occasionally to scream his fool head off about all the shit he doesn’t want to have to fix himself. Cover your ass. Cover your ass. Cover your ass. Everyone’s need-to-know, and the only thing keeping rat turds out of your fucking burrito are the poor high school kids, social outcasts, and whoever’s lucky enough to know someone who could get them hired.
Loud phone-talker walking the halls of the mall. Totally reminds me of Philosopharific. Or that guy with a huge oversized cell phone that screamed into it inappropriately for that fucking real-life guerilla comedy show. Balls, that guy.
Oh, so I have to tell you more about this mall. It fits into the big picture. The whole story. It sits right downtown Stevens Point. It is called, in fact, the CenterPoint Mall. Research it yourself if you give a fuck. Anyway, it’s mostly empty. There’s a Shopko at one end that barely survived the Wal-Mart onslaught what turned our old food production land to parking lots. Hang on, I’m just getting started. Develop this, assholes. So ShopKo’s still there. They’re a Green Bay based company, so that’s local, right? Oh. Publicly traded? Never mind. When I was in high school, the old JC Penny wasn’t empty. I may yet have a shirt or two purchased from there. Weird. All that’s left is a fucking Regis hairstylist, a Bath and Body Works, and Claires. Upon glancing at it on my walk in, I received a disapproving harrumph from a passing old “man.” So, I decided then and there that I should apply for a job there to ensure that the high school girls of this fine community have all of the plastic soul-fillers, self-esteem replacements, and poisonous skin compounds that their GMO-weakened little hearts desire. Hey. Girls like that have single mothers. I’d basically be a freelance babysitter. Guarantee they’d get their homework done, not to mention actually learning something despite their teacher’s persistent advances. Of course they abuse the attractive ones. Any adult that tends towards that system (of violent reactions betwix’d those artificially placed in a low/restricted/insufficient-resource environment) is gonna “thrive” on taking their pain out on the younger generation of those who spurned them. Pot, kettle, no you are.
I miss the twitters. I need to go find internet. Fuck.
Look, unless you’re willing to a full 36+ hours of co-naked time, don’t even fucking hug me. None of the shower drains in my house work, the washing machine sucks, the walls are thin and I don’t want to be the one who breaks the unwritten “at-least-we-don’t-jack-off-loud-enough-for-everyone-else-to-hear-it” rule. Living with dudes sucks. At least when I was jacking off down the hall from girls I really liked, I knew it was because I was a worthless human paraquat rather than just shy. Yeah, there used to be a non-judgmental word for anti-social, quiet, gentle people. Shy. Whatever. Your kids love me. That’s all I need. I’m sure your violence crushes their little hearts on a regular basis (do unto others, right?), so any friends that will stand up to bullies like you, that’s a good friend for them to have. Trust your gut. Knowing how to be a loud, angry bastard is a useful skill. It helps when dealing with terrified old “men” and “women” who don’t really know what that means any more but know full well that your way offends every one of their sensibilities. Wait, no. It hits a nerve. Why are those nerves irritated? You’d think they’d be fine, they’re all shielded by that layer of blubber. How does any electro-magnetic human energy get through that? I know you’re full of shit, because you’re spewing it out of every micro-through-macroscopic hole in your attitude-disease-riddled perspective transporter.
There’s a mountain-lodge snow scene on a tarp hanging on the wall over there. Festive. It goes well with the bare metal slips, the cheesy plastic wreath with gold pinecone-shaped ornaments and red and gold ribbons. Gold Ivy? Holy fuck. It grows right out of the walls! Plastic Hallelujah! The metal locking don’t steal our wonderful “shit” gates make the Walter Sobchak in me wanna start barking like an adderall-fueled pug who’s just about to start humping his co-protector. The alpha just grins. Wags. You guys are cute. Go to your room.
I love the floors in here. Black and white terrazzo tiles with some sort of metal spacer. Maybe, if they actually allowed skateboards and roller-blades/skates in here, there might be some people. It’s not like you’re gonna hit anyone. Who doesn’t deserve it. Quit spending your limited income on this poisonous shit, grandma! Let me help you grow yourself clean food.
Heal clicks from passing fuckables are sure enough that I know without even looking up from this very screen. I think I am a shoe fettish. I’m wearing the boots today. They’re not insulated, so worse for winter than my dancy dumpster shoes (the Abercrombie ones w/paint on ‘em), which I am still oddly amused by, by the way. Uh. Time signature change! Blast beat! It’s not machine gun fire, sweety, it’s a double-bass kicker. It’s like a 21 gun salute for your basement. Boom.
2:12 pm. Just started Me reading Krishnamurti’s Freedom From The Known. I have a rearview mirror at this office table, too. I can see main street from here, and the sky. Huge elongated pyramid ceiling in here. There’s enough glass in here to make greenhouses, passive solar systems, and insulated windows for actual human dwellings. This land wants to be organized like an organized city. And right now, it has a huge fucking capitalist scar right in the middle of its downtown. It locks up at ridiculous hours, and it only lets people in during business hours. And, in all of these kept-warmer-than-my-bedroom places? Locks. Walls. Signs demanding rents. Fuck you, people of whatever city this happens to be. Fuck your non-willingness to give money to your out-of-town owner/“investor.” We have to keep it locked to get our tax write-off. Fuck off. Die, somewhere else. I know. We are fully aware we are only using your real resources and preventing you from growing food here, but fuck off. No, you can’t stay here either.
Your pristine walls lock your diseases in with you, dumbass. They don’t keep the bad shit out. They keep all the good shit out. They keep you alone with yourself, a prisoner to your own social fascism.
“That you and I are responsible for all this existing chaos.”
That’s where I left off. This time. I put Them Crooked Vultures on. Maybe it’s that I have to pee. I just felt dancy. I often feel dancy.
I don’t like talking about my penis. It speaks for itself. Loudly, apparently. Those it’s spoken to don’t say much afterwards. I can totally believe how you would leave it to stagnate and atrophy like this. It’s kind of my point. Remember that scene from revenge of the nerds? The darth vader costume? Nerds don’t think about sports. Which leaves us a lot more time to think about fucking in its various forms. You’re damn skippy I had sexual relations with that adorable little fully conscious and capable, fully aware and horny girl. Multiple times, and/or on multiple occasions. As much as she wanted. She doesn’t want any more. The offer’s still on the table, but she won’t stop yelling long enough for me to get close. So here I sit, wallowing in my own filth. Oh, wait, it’s your filth, too. Our filth is far more beautiful than we give ourselves credit for, America. I have x-ray vision, though. I see through clothes. Make-up. Perfume (yes, one must “see” through it). Tone. Words. The truth comes through odd messengers these days, kiddos. I listen to those who clearly aren’t used to being listened to. Most of the time, they don’t really have anything in particular to say, but they sure want to be heard. I hear ya, blown-ups. Just ‘cuz you’re trapped in that huge body with dependent satellites of your own don’t mean I can’t see the wild-eyed little human animal trying to get out. Let it out more often and it won’t embarrass you at inappropriate times. Or it will. Look, that little fucker knows what’s best. Listen between the shrieks of joy. The truth emerges.
And we’re alone. Money.
I gotta pee. Brb. Well, I’m gonna go to the library for a bit. Lateski!