Mitchell ↣ Luke Hemmings

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Mitchell sniffed as she was greeted with the familiar scent of the mall. She wasn't sure why she liked going to the mall in particular. She never shopped there.

It was noisy and full of crazy people in the mall. And Mitchell hated it. But she went there nonetheless because she was a walking contradiction, and she enjoyed that. She enjoyed being something to get angry over.

She would say that the mall was a good place to sit and write, but it really wasn't. She could sit, sure. She could write, yes. But it wasn't a very good place for doing just that. It smelled like burgers and was full of children who needed just five more minutes and would scream until they got those 'five minutes' (which of course ended up becoming at least twenty more minutes of torture for Mitchell).

She still came, though, journal and huge rucksack in tow.

It wasn't like she actually wrote anything worth being published. She just wrote because it was the best way to get everything out.

And the mall was ironically the best place to just sit and observe people. She observed the mothers who walked particularly quickly because they only had an hour before their important business meeting and their daughters insisted they crunch time at the mall. She observed the skater kids who rode by and had to be told by security to get off of their skateboards and please put the lighter away. She observed the thirteen-year-old girls who wore shorts up to their asses and shirts up to their boobs. She observed the kids who'd walk around aimlessly, trying to hide their bruises with flannels and their frowns with smiles that meant as much as a penny in a parking meter.

Then she'd try to observe herself because how else would she be able to think of something to write?

She'd never write anything worth reading, though, because she never could really get to the root of her problems. That was, if she even had any.

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"big big booty when u got a big booty" i scream while in the stall of a public restroom