The Art of Selling and Buying Time or Love is Severe Brain Damage

Mall: 10:19 am. Immediately I am bombarded by a woman in a windbreaker. She rushes up to me, moral justice flashing in her regularly dim eyes, lips pursed, face wrinkled into a permanent frown.

"Do you still have those calenders showing women's naked bottoms?" she says, in a self-righteous manner.

Of course we have them, as long as women have attractive pieces, this corporation will make a calender featuring those parts.

"Hot Buns?" I ask, hiding my smile. I will not reveal my utter amusement.

Her glasses are unstylish, her neon yellow and blue windbreaker tied around the waist of the jeans that are cut unrevealingly high and tapered at the lower leg, leading up to worn white and blue Reeboks. Her hair is short; mid facial level. An uninteresting cut. The kind of hair no one notices or remembers. Her woman companion is her clone, a bobble-headed marm. I can tell that these petite unattractive brunettes in thier mid-thirties are mothers. I can imagine their blank-eyed towheaded sprogs as their moms are standing irritatingly close to me, by the look of them I can tell without a doubt that they are surely avid frothing members of the PTA. These woman have never smoked a cigarette, let alone a joint and probably power-walk around this mall (instead of their respective suburban sectors) out of a paranoid fear of being raped.

I lead them over to a rack filled with calenders featuring girls in bathing suits, garter belts, and thongs. I pick up Hot Buns and display it to them. My pink lip gloss glistens, I am sweeter than candy.

"Hannah, look at this smut. This is disgusting. This is exploitation!"

Hannah, the dowdy old hag is appalled, "I can't believe that you display this kind of pornography (she says this with a little extra zesty Judgement in her voice) in clear view of children!"

I'm still holding Hot Buns. My pupils are pinpoints, if I could narrow my eyes just a little further, perhaps I could jab these sheltered beasts with them.

She sighs.

"Thank you." Shaking her head.

And I am quick to exclaim with horror and lack of sleep and lack of caffiene and lack of nicotine and lack of a decent job:

"Well are you going to buy the fucking thing or not!??"

Wrong response.

Their ruffled feathers are ruffled further and they briskly power walk away, swishing ther irritating arms from side to side.

A bad hair cut walks by and provides her damnable insight "Nice hair!".

I am grinding my teeth. I feel the urge to tear out my hair. To spit on the shiny gumball machine. I keep my saliva to myself. Such a display would be bad for customer service.

I'm angry because I'm in love and because the loudspeaker is playing "I Want to Hold Your Hand".

I want to be at the apartment pouring tequila in my naval and having him drink deeply from it.

A young black man walks by as I am scowling at calenders featuring God's little abominations, the Bichon Frise, and chewing my finger obsessively (a little trickle of blood running down my finger) and he says:

"Come on baby, it's not that bad." As he says this he does that snap and point at the same time thing and I'm tempted to whip the Bichon Frise calender at his head like a frisbee as he walks away, casually bumping along to some silent unknown beat.


Earlier, he took me for breakfast. One of those Mom and Pop things. One of those places that the same group of old men and women gather at every morning grasping at some semblance of a joyful life.

We ate and conversed and watched the traffic on Main Street.

I kept staring at his eyes; foolishly-madly-intoxicatingly-insanely-extremely-crazy-fucked-up in love with him. As he spoke, I could only think one thing; I would bleed for him.

Being around him makes me want to say sappy regurgitated lines that people in love always say to each other in romantic little places like this.

My heart beats for you.

Love is severe brain damage.