Virago Magazine vəˈräɡō/: a woman of strength or spirit; a female warrior
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I love the mall. The smell of new plastic. I like watching
people. Not in a creepy way, in the way that a writer watches people.
Like it’s channel 5. I sit outside of the arcade, fuck a few hours
away. Life writes itself if you let it. The fifteen year old
shoplifter who has no idea that I didn’t need to see her take those
jeans, to know that she did. I WAS her. The psuedo philosophical
seventeen year olds on the bench outside, smoking pipes and talking
about models. Me tweeting beside a teenager who’s tweeting about
hating malls while she pulls out a credit card with a higher limit
than the one I can’t get. I’m standing in Aeropostale wondering how a
size 14 could look so much like Baby Gap. I shop here when I want to
get a glimpse of what it must feel like to be 17 in 2013. I go into
Hot Topic and watch little dolls dressed like a Nightmare Before
Christmas selling Ramones t-shirts to fifteen year olds who want to
broadcast their indifference and rebellion. I want to scream “Fuck the
machine!” until I realize that I am standing in the machine. I observe
all of this like an adult with the mind of a teenager. For a moment
I’m tempted to ask the Ramones t-shirt wearer to name five songs by
the Ramones, until I realize that the Ramones are the one punk band I
don’t like. Also, I wore a Doors t-shirt when I was 18 but hey…I
knew five songs and hated “Light My Fire” Still, I did it mostly to
look cool and to say…”I’m so complicated.” So I get it. We all want
to be a little mystery, don’t we? They are all in that awkward phase
and so am I. I think I will die in it. I go to Claires and it is 1984
again and for two minutes I think about stealing a pair of earrings
just so I can remember not giving a shit. But I give it. The last
place I go is the Vans store. I call the manager “Conan O’Brien”
because he wears red hair and a smirk. He has loathed me for three
years because I made an angsty comment about a belt buckle. Even
though he works on commission he will throw a sale just for the
satisfaction of saying….”WE don’t have your size”. When he walks out
of the back room with no shoes, I see vengeful elation on his red
bearded face. I befriended the sales girl once. They always had my
size. She was getting a commission. Everyone was happy but Conan. He
broke us up. Now, I cruise the window to see if he’s working. I think
he knows. Because I don’t see him anywhere until I step inside and
BOOM!—he appears. We should have our own comic. I think I will start
smoking a pipe. Maybe give the Ramones a second chance. Maybe never
grow up.
