| rev:text
| - Blakeney shopping center: an effigy to the Ballantyne Woman, the Charlotte Woman, the young girl or even the austere Antebellum. If you find yourself male or something close to it, you need not venture out if not by the tail of your coat, dragged there like a dog--a rescue--by that I don't mean a valiant heroic dog--no, I am talking the really sad ones, the ones that really annoying girl posts on Facebook all the time whether you like it or not--even though she never actually adopts them or plans to. That is what we are, unimportant little pets, cute little luggage for our women to tote around and poke when it tickles their fancy.
There is a men's store I've only ever been to under the influence of a woman--my master--and do not wish to return to. There is Target, where even a man can stand under the air conditioning vents, smell the sweet, balmy scent of Target-brand-original-pheromones seeping through the louver and find himself inextricably tempted to buy something--anything. Perhaps a shirt or a shirt, or perhaps a shirt; heaven knows there is nowhere else in Blakeney Shopping Center to go unless you want to dress yourself like your master is already doing so.
Sad creatures we are here. We work through the week only to be victims to the Yonic Empire that is Blakeney Shopping Center. What can be done? We could want things, things for us...I want an actual sports bar. I don't want scented candles or fucking nautical women's wear. I want a BAR! Not a bar with a winsome young man bartending, dressed in black that goes by milf-lover91@yahoo.com as his match.com login. Even the one sports store in there is for cycling and running--why? I mean yea they have great shoes and really good customer service but how about selling a bow and arrow or even a something with a motor. I would even take a part city--I could at least string myself up with the party beads. Hell bring back video stores; it would be nice to be able to pick from a selection of more than twenty-movies.
All I can say is thank goodness for their weekly concerts of aging codgers that would rather be playing jam band music but are forced to compromise to play for housewives and our daughters who really need to consider wearing clothing a little more often. I don't want to look over and see your ten-year olds ass hanging out. When my daughter gets to that age, I just hope she wears pants or my wife just puts me down beforehand, which will probably be because I got off my leash and scared a group of women just trying purchase women's nautical wear.
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