You Can’t Sit With Us

My friend, who in life is the picture of all things perfection, accompanied me into a highly exclusive shop. You couldn’t see the door, it was made of green glass and looked by all accounts to be solid. I couldn’t see her as she entered, so had no frame of reference for how I should get myself admitted. I walked hesitantly into the “door” and felt a rushing as I passed through, like how your hand feels out a car window.

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The room was about the size of a small grocery store, the floors were made of wood so darkly lacquered it appeared to be liquid. At the entrance, a woman, perhaps seven feet tall with stunning hands and extremely long blonde hair bent over a small podium to place a necklace made of locally sourced wood, cloth and other textiles around my neck which I was to wear only while I was shopping here. I noticed that she had no head, it seemed like her hair was perpetually swirling around where a face should be.

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The shop was completely open save for two half-walled areas near the very back, from which I could see the upper bodies of perhaps twenty people. I headed towards them, and passed a total of five and one half racks of clothing which were spaced perhaps forty feet apart.

A man who looked like Jesus was leading a yoga class, and I spied my friend near the back. He had one of those Brittney Spears/ celebrity-pastor head mics which he didn’t need because he was speaking to us all telepathically as one hive mind. He looked over at me and opened his whole head up emitting a huge black sound-wave through the air that knocked me onto the ground. “I guess you’re not cool enough to shop here…” My friend watched me leave.

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