Ernest Hemingway once said, “Once we have a war there is only one thing to do. It must be won.”

For me, war had begun: against mediocre sales in mediocre clothing stores. The danger that I faced became imminent as Black Friday crept closer and closer. I had been preparing for this day all year, ever since I lost the battle of 2013 — I only bought one sweater, and at full price. I’m not usually melodramatic, but I let down my entire ancestry, and I had to avenge my family’s honor.

I finished my Thanksgiving feast and headed out into the wild. I prepared myself for my Bat Mitzvah of capitalism, but all the while, I wondered if I had what it took to pass this rite. My parents sat me down to give me one last piece of advice before I went off on my own.

“Buy a goddamn winter coat for school,” my mom yelled to me as I left my home, scared but ready. She hugged me one last time. My 8-year-old sister looked up at me and asked if she could come.

“No, young one,” I told her. “You must first wear the skin of a slain sales associate. Then you will be ready.”

My dad handed me his keys and said, “Keep safe, son.”

I shook my head, knowing that he never really got used to having daughter.

I went to gather my army consisting of friends from high school. A cunning and able-bodied team was necessary, but they would do. We walked into the mall at 11 p.m. with the swagger of someone holding a fresh coupon book. Where to go first? Cotton On? Forever 21? H&M? That one store with prom dresses that always smells weird? The mall was my oyster, and I would find the pearl.

Perhaps one of the most daunting things about hitting up your local mall is seeing everyone who ever graced the halls of your high school. “We won’t see anyone we know,” my friend said as we waved hello to the entire 2012 varsity lacrosse team. Go Wildcats. Our first stop was Target, and we obviously went straight for the DVDs. $19.99 for “The Wolf of Wall Street.” Is this a goddamn joke? I can torrent this shit. I walked right past the “Frozen” dolls and headed straight for the exit. I picked up my binoculars and looked for my friends among the three-mile line. I gathered them and we left, hoping to find luck elsewhere.

At our next stop, American Eagle, we were greeted with a pun and a despondent seasonal associate. “YULE LOVE OUR SALES.” I looked at the sad worker and saw the pain in her eyes. I knew she’d be dealing with people like me until 4 a.m. I had to look away in shame.

After searching for an hour, we needed to refuel. We could never commit to the food court, and the smell of Pretzel Time called to us. We sat on a bench for our supper, and in that moment, I saw God in the cheese sauce, and he told me it would be okay. It was 12 a.m. and I still hadn’t bought anything.

We entered f.y.e. and were 20 steps in when we realized how saturated with Brony merch this store had become. We galloped away, wondering when f.y.e. went off the deep end.

I was scared. Tired. Cold. The pretzel was giving me heartburn. Suddenly, among the determined crowds, I saw a beacon of hope. Buy one, get one half off at PacSun? The rapture was here, and I was ready to go. Among the racks I saw a $40 shawl and a $30 shirt. My total was $48. And while that was cheaper than advertised, I genuinely didn’t care to ask why. I left with heavy bags and a light heart. I made my family proud. The music from “Rocky” played as I walked out of the mall. It was weird that they did that, but I was into it. Then the music changed and “Don’t You Forget About Me” from “The Breakfast Club” played. My friends and I lifted our fists in the air Judd Nelson-style. I took my chariot home, ready to show my parents my spoils. I’m not going to say I was a Black Friday MVP, but I’m also not going to say I wasn’t. I’ll leave that for you to decide.