let's go to the mall; i want things

feel really bad about a handful of people wearing soiled gym pants and mismatched sneakers walking off-balance all around us at the entrance to the train. i feel their eyes stick on me, hating or maybe coveting my neat, clean hair, my freshly washed outfit. or maybe they smell the soap i used in the shower this morning, or the kombucha on my breath. i wonder if they have ever downloaded anything from the itunes music store. i wonder what their favorite songs might be.
whenever i walk through these handfuls, this area, or where portly shirtless men and their offspring shoulder the sun on crowded front stoops, or where you hear cursing at passing fake hipsters sporting shiny new messenger bags, or where a man sitting in a doorway with the constitution of a crumpled paper bag extends his shaking hand in your direction and you can't tell if his eyes are bloodshot or actually bleeding, i want to cover myself in car grease and excrement and paint thinner and salt to convince everyone that i am made of guilt and self-contempt. "i hate everything about myself," i might say, slapping my face with a wet sock full of coins. "trust me, i do."