Sitting in a mall in front of a row of dressing rooms, I clutch a blue tank top in my hands, the only article of clothing I could actually see myself wearing and didn’t kill me with sticker shock. To my left, a young man, obviously very uneasy, waiting as his girlfriend tries on a number of clothing items. The background music blares a super-upbeat pop-rock song, that compliments the trandy, glittery pieces hanging from the displays and shelves within the store.
I’m wearing a black shirt I’ve had since 8th grade and a mens ring I found in a parking lot.
At one time, this shopping excursion would have lit me up and had me making music videos in my head.
Now, I can’t stand it. Even in a modest midwestern mall, the walls scream “Welcome to Mainstream America” and I just want to hide.
Looking around my room, I see mismatched…well…everything. My desk is littered with pens, papers, folders, antique store jewlry, photo albums and Alaska postcards.
I want to write novels. I want to work for PBS.
I mean, really. I wear shirts made of that waffle material stuff.
My name is AJ. And I’m happy.
Thankyou.
1:33 AM August 7th, 2006
