I know I’m getting older because Easter has…changed. Gone are the days of church and egg hunts on the lawn in patent leather Mary Janes. This Easter, I sold candy at Gutenberg and played bingo at Pieces. I was even approached to work a lesbian kissing booth for Gay Pride. I’m not gay but I might do it anyway. This was a much welcomed ego boost. Now I’m a special kind of pretty, the pretty-enough-to-get-paid-for-sexual-acts.
This was me in Atlanta, circa 1981.
As a fan of Project Runway, I would hope, if ever the designer challenge is Bunny suit, that Heidi Klum would wag a pregancy swollen finger and say “You’re Out.” What mall allowed this?
In the world of colored fur, less is more. A bunny should make you go, “Aw! Itsalittlebunnywonnyyesitis! Yesitis!” The litmus test for true cuteness is baby talk. I don’t want to baby talk Mall Bunny. I certainly don’t want to scratch behind Mall Bunny’s ears (and not just because they’re made of pink radioactive waste.) Mall Bunny is the bunny that chases you into the dark dank basement carrying bloody Peeps. Mall Bunny is the title of a Stephen King novel that his family will discover posthumously and publish as a box set of three with It and Pet Cemetery. I’m not so much sitting on Mall Bunny’s lap as I am strapped in. Don’t mistake the fear on my face for disinterest. I was just playing it cool in order to subtly raise my right leg and knee Mall Bunny in the Bunny Balls.
Also, I have a mullet.