Rural North American strip malls, so called because they strip you of the very life force energy received at conception, are peopled by the souls of the undead. These grey and frayed blankets of homogeny smother any spark of individuality.
Unlike say Starbucks that pop up like a pimple the night before a big party an ex boyfriend is rumoured to be attending, they merely irritate but you can by-pass them to the little greasy spoon caf next door and be done.
Strip malls have a magnetic force that engages at a distance of 100 ft sucking you in with it's cheap prices and glaring neon signs. Like the gang of mean girls at school that you had to embrace in order to accept and be accepted the strip mall forces you to exchange ideas for doctrine.
I don't want to have the same flippin pictures on my wall as the rest of the street. I want to belong sure, not SURRENDER. I don't want to see my reading chair or coffee table in someone else's front room who's serving me coffee in a top I also have!!
No, give me boutique any day. I don't care that I can only buy one of something instead of ten there at least I'll be the only one with that something. I live in Edward Scissorhand's cul de sac and that is bad enough, don't take my creativity too.
So my dear friends, we're moving to the big smoke. The for sale sign is going up and we're on our way to Toronto proper before I lose my shine.
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