12 playboy bunnies cost less than an 1 1/2" glowstick

Yesterday Pat and I went to a mall to play arcades and buy cinnamon rolls. Every time we visit that arcade there's an Asian child defying the laws of physics on the Dance Dance Revolution machine. Sipping my hot chocolate, I noted with surprise that a white boy was there instead. I slipped a few tokens into a Playboy pinball machine. The goal was to have your way with all twelve Playboy bunnies -- one for each month of the year. I wasted two more tokens on a crane machine filled with candy. The claw whose grasp is weaker than that of a baby's only managed to drag the Baby Ruth bar halfway to the slide before dropping it with blatant exhaustion.

Later while I was standing in line in the women's restroom, I noticed that instead of having tampon dispensers, you could buy a tube of lip gloss for a dollar, an Asprin tablet for seventy-five cents, and, also for seventy-five cents -- an inch-and-a-half glowstick. I immediately abandoned my place in line and asked Pat if he had seventy-five cents. Digging through his pockets, he asked why, and if I was going to buy a condom. I absentmindedly answered no, but in the silence that followed I wondered why condoms would be sold in restrooms. I decided that it must be so that a man can communicate to other men that women swarm around him so thickly that he doesn't even have the time to drive down to the drug store and buy a box of condoms. But anyway, I eagerly accepted Pat's seventy-five cents and sped back to the bathroom, where I dropped in my three quarters and in turn received a small, white box sealed with plastic wrapping. I showed Pat the little box and began removing the wrapping, and on the packet therein I pointed out the word "lightstick." I gave Pat the honor of cracking the glowstick to life. He cupped it in his hands so that it cast an eerie blue light upon his palm.

Only an hour before I was a scowling mass of irritability after having Pat show two hours later than he had said he would and burning the fuck out of my tongue thanks to some unnecessarily scalding hot chocolate. Happiness costs seventy-five cents.