The UCLA Target Is A Liminal Hellscape

The UCLA Target is honestly the worst place in the world. I hate it. And I hate it even more because I can’t free myself from it. 

Target is an integral part of a college girl’s life. They have everything you need. Target is supposed to be your go-to. It’s your safe space where you can walk in for toothpaste and leave with three new candles and a mug. 

But the Westwood Target, oh no. The Westwood Target is not your friend. I don’t even think it’s real. Have you ever been in a grocery store at night or a gas station in the middle of nowhere? And there’s a weirdly out-of-body feeling? Like maybe you’re in this in-between space? That’s what the Westwood Target is like. Except so much worse. 

You walk in and immediately your flight-or-flight response kicks in. The vibes are just…off. It’s go-time. You want to be in and out of there as fast as you possibly can. But Evil-Target has other ideas. 

Evil-Target is like the Minotaur’s Labyrinth. It’s designed to confuse you — trap you. The layout makes absolutely zero sense. None at all. You walk in, and the Christmas mugs and drawer storage are just to your left. The fruits and vegetables are next to the laundry detergent. Do you need last-minute beach supplies? It’s over in the book zone. 

And God forbid you need to get from one side of the Target to the other. No choice but to take another lap. The one cross-through doesn’t get you anywhere conveniently. To whoever put together the layout of this insidious place, who hurt you? It doesn’t have to be this way, I swear.

Another thing, why is the only place to get a Yerba Mate in that traumatizing corporate abyss one fridge at the checkout kiosks? And why when I grab my Super+ tampons do I have to make eye contact with the pharmacist? I’m all for period awareness but does Mr. Pharmacist really need to know how heavy my flow is?  

And if I haven’t convinced you just how heinous Evil-Target is yet, well, what would you say if I told you it’s so bad that my friend projectile-vomited upon entrance? Projectile. Vomited. Upon entrance. It’s a low no one deserves. But Evil-Target wasn’t done with her just yet. She still had to validate her stupid parking. Holding back the second round (yeah, second round) of vomit, she had to haul herself to the back entrance and get that damn ticket scanned. And then she threw up again for good measure. 

I say all of this fully aware that I need to go get my favorite granola when I get back from break. That’s how Evil-Target gets you. It makes sure it sells the one thing you can’t get enough of and can’t get anywhere else. You keep coming back for more. It’s masochistic. 

If I could, I’d personally fund the total demolition of that place. And then sage it. And then sage it again just to be safe. If it’s possible to have an archnemesis, mine is the Evil-Target. I have nothing but hate in my heart for it. “But Guinivere, that’s not healthy!” Shut up. I have to take all my stress out on something. 

So if you see me shopping anytime soon at the UCLA Westwood Target, do not approach. I’m likely not of sound body and mind. I am a worse version of myself I must become in order to survive Evil-Target. And you do not want to get caught in the crossfire. 

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