Repressed lunch memories

When I was a wee boy, before I started school, there were no other kids in the neighborhood my age. Everyday my mom would stuff me into my undersized winter coat, buckle me into the back seat, and force me to go to every shopping mall on Long Island with her. In 1966, malls were at the apogee of their post-war suburban glory.

Mom was thrifty, so she would shop for hours and never, ever buy anything. This was brutal on a precocious, hyper-intelligent child like myself. You can only pull boogies out of your nose and flirt with the pretty-smelling cash register ladies for so long before your patience wanes.

However, if I behaved myself, mom would buy me a hot dog for lunch. And if was a really good boy and I didn’t smear snot all over my face, she’d buy me a Match Box car too, but that was rare because—even back then—my nose was large and hard to manage.

These days, when the Battle Ax forces me to go to the mall with her on the weekends, I always bring my Kindle. I’m content to camp-out in the asshole chair, read, and drink coffee. When I look up and see her approaching, beaming with swollen shopping bags, I immediately crave a hotdog, and I instinctively check the tip of my index finger.

Did you notice how I used the word apogee in the first paragraph? How pretentious.