How much do I love going to the mall? Dec. 5 and it's already swamped late on a Wednesday night, but it's only going to get worse, so what can you do? You manage a sweet spot in the parking garage, get right where you want to be (in this case, Kit's Camera), and that's when the guy tells you your little discount card doesn't work. Do you have the receipt for it? Uh, you mean the receipt from fucking May in fucking Massachusetts, that one? Because, no, I didn't keep it, but I paid for the damn card and I want my discount on those 130 photos I'm having printed here, and I want it now. Luckily, he gave it to me, but he told me to "look for that receipt."
Let's move on from that fiasco, and continue shopping during our hour wait. I know, let's try on Christmas blouses at JC Penny. Let's go to the dressing room, where many rooms are standing open, and all have clothes in them because lazy fucks leave shit there instead of putting it on the rack. Pick one of the aforementioned rooms, try on several shirts, and then you hear, "Is someone in there?" Well, yeah, lady, there is. Did you gather that from the locked door? Well, apparently, that was her dressing room, though where she's been for the last 10 minutes, I couldn't tell you. Or why she thought she could leave shit in an open dressing room and think that was not only okay but an indicator that the room with clothes on the floor was hers.
I hate the mall.
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