all blown out

Lines varying from twenty-five to sixty people file out from every store. Eager people poke their heads any which way to get a glimpse of the action and see what they are missing out on. Fluorescent signs and banners scream indications that prices have been brutally and repeatedly slashed-- may full prices rest in peace. Melting dirt-snow drips from my Sorel boots and contributes to the filthy flood; a mess suited for two dozen highly-trained janitors. The scent summons upon my face a wince, trying to pinpoint the stronger force of what smells like a combination of cinnamon buns and body odour. The latter prevails and I lose my appetite. The sound of screaming babies overpowers the hum of Christmas music, which, for some reason, still loops constantly in every store. A security guard passes by and utters "code beige" on his walkie. I don't know what constitutes a code beige, but this place is a circus.

Varieties of wide, tall, tiny, young, and old people all patiently wait to drop dollars on whatever Santa Clause didn't bring. Some, like myself, wish to follow through on monetary gifts brought by a different kind of Santa Clause. Subcounsciously, my hand finds its way into my cargo pocket to ensure that the cash and gift certificates haven't gone anywhere. For security purposes, I nervously do so every five minutes. This lust for retail causes my hand to sweat, dampening the wad. I feel like royalty as I bask in more money than I'd ever had. I should be exempt from standing in line because I have so much. The people lope sluggishly forward as the big red Zellers sign slowly grows larger, until finally there are but two ahead of me. I will barge through that door with the force of twenty men and spend, spend, spend. I begin to plot how the process is going to unravel. I feel like I should be stretching my hamstrings or taking deep breaths, but I'll just check on the money again.

What I shouldn't do is buy the first thing I see. Buying something I need completely escapes me, and, like any rampant money spender, all I want to do is get rid of this urging pile of money as if it's going to disintegrate. I desire what I do not require, and vice-versa. I should be rational and not buy anything unless I need it... I then revert to the theory that I would never limit myself to, say, only getting one plate at an all-you-can-eat buffet. This money is not the result of any kind of labour; it is simply the annual reward for being a good child. It is not hard-earned, but handed-over, and it's there to be spent. As merry as Christmas day was, I insist on bustling through clean-picked stores to hopefully find that one cherry to place on top.

Apparently, bargain-hunting requires a lot more than a kid with no budget. The notion of buying something I need, let alone want, goes out the window. Really, the selection is laughable. I sigh knowing that there is less and less around every corner. Eveything that remains on the shelves is either useless, still expensive, or a Christmas decoration. Any gift I've ever received beats this junk! In fact, my time would be better spent at home with my new gear and the people who bought it for me. Finally, I half-heartedly decide on some album. The clerk tells me I'm too young, and makes note of the "parental advisory, listener discretion" tag. Explicit language is nothing I haven't heard, but there's no point of making a scene, because he's right. Mom and Dad probably wouldn't approve of me spending my money that way. It seems every force is working against me and I am compelled to leave empty-handed with the same amount of cash, nothing lost, nothing gained. I bank the money for another day when it's needed, but no Boxing day bargain can match a Christmas present.