Deathmall Redux.

Back in my college days, or as some might call them, "the salad days of youth," I liked to go to the Mall of America, affectionately referred to as the Deathmall, and just...amble around. (I had also not yet perfected my abuse of the comma, but that's another story) This was also a time when, thanks to abundant student aid and a student job, I had a little of what is known as disposable income.

You may never be able to go back, but you can damn well visit.

In the name of buying a fancy 'frock' for the party, as ordered by the Muse, I went. (I did find a gorgeous floor-length burnt-orange dress that makes me look both classy and devastatingly sexy--I hope. Also, it is shiny. And strapless, which is a new and scary thing for me.)

I meandered. I swung by the cheese shop and had all the free samples twice. I watched the living mannequins in the store windows and wondered how they decided who got the chair. I had a Cinnabun. I bought something sparkly. I browsed through the bookstores. I played with toys that glowed and whirred. I used my last quarter to get a piece of grape bubblegum from the candy machine kiosk. I ate in the foodcourt while I watched people playing in the amusement park below me. And then I saw a movie--V for Vendetta.

Good times.