Entering the mall today, I ran across a trio of young college women. They were ambling down their path in that way peculiar to their genus. Each looked like an oblivious French dictator, marching with long strides, as sure as a soldier, as they eye fucked every person and object that was on display. Except, they never seemed to stare in the direction they were marching, as though a bullet to the head was not a sure probability. They were enamored with little, superficial things (that is their type’s goal: superficiality).