We don't get to see each other often, and that doesn't necessarily have a negative impact on our lives. Maybe it's best if we remain occasional friends.
The other day I took my Oma to lenscrafters. The one located deep inside you, on what would be the inner wall of the large intestine if you were a body. This was ordinary enough (excepting the surprisingly poor grammar of the salesperson), and we knew an hour would pass before freedom could be ours. I rallied heavily for the indian restaurant across the street. This involved vivid descriptions of past feasts, colorful histories, and calm reassurances that mildly spiced food could indeed be had. My Oma has an easy way with differing opinions. She ignores you--and brilliantly, kindly-- she just didn't hear you, after all. We were having lunch with you, for it had been so long.
Believe me, Richmond Mall, I would rather get down on some subway in your food court than run the risk of experiencing a gastronmic cynicism so intense that each meal for days to come becomes a hollow reclamation. Oma faked a pass across the food court, feigning interest here and there, being solicitous ('Is there anything for you here?'), then taking a crazy cross-court shot directly aimed at ruby tuesday. Tuesdays? I'm not sure, and I don't care to ever know the answer.
Let me remind you, Americans, fellow livers of life! Let me remind you of the pain of this place, the punishment you should accept because your asshole habits built it, this experience to only be endured, with no redeeming feeling, because your body will not forgive you for this onslaught, not even for the sake of kindness. The primary, most deadly aspect of the assault led by R.T. is biological--specifically, olfactory. The first ten minutes were felt slowly, gagging for a small amount of air that didn't smell like cooking oil-coated walls, drenched rugs, and midwestern sadness. It never went away! It happens other places, too, but it's such a feeling of home-loneliness, a really soft self-hatred that it feels midwestern. Complete staleness. Stagnation without the humidity. Then the bad old coffee. The slow hour, the slow service, the food hatefully chewed, then left. Some part of me was clamouring to get out of there. I was getting stabby.
Then I felt cleansed anew, walking along your wide avenues housed by jewelry stands of all manner. So, we're cool there. Also, the sit-down two-player Ms. Pacman in the food court? Badasss, baby. I wanted to lose myself in her yellow arms but duty called.