Confessions of a Real Shopaholic

Before you’ve gone and think that I’ve become some materialistic whore, let me explain myself. It goes deeper than you think.

Confessions of a real shopaholic.

I’ve been fooling myself with an attempted contentment…this serenity of satisfaction with my surroundings, emotions and being. I’ve come to a lull. I’ve been here quite sometime now. I feel constrained, unlived, motionless as a whole. There are moments, as rare as they are, when I become enveloped with sweet, momentous perfection and joy in its purest form flows through my veins. But it’s not enough. I want more. And when the elation fades away and in the dark, when I’m all alone is when I feel the most vulnerable to the unknown and I succumb to the emptiness that echoes in oblivion.

An endless search that leads to nowhere. A need to fill a void.

So, where does the manic shopping come in? Well, I guess right here of course. I want to recreate that “shine” that can’t quite be smoked, injected, or drunk or at least by me because I’m freakin’ allergic to every substance known to man. I used to laugh at people who claimed compulsive shopping as a disorder. Buy, happiness, realization, pathetic, denial, frustration. I am a shopaholic. I get a kick out of buying things I can’t afford or don’t even need. It sickens me to have such a materialistic addiction. Materialism is a social injustice. FYI, climbing an 11,000 foot mountain for 5 hours to finally reach the peak can probably achieve the same or an even better effect as let’s say a drug-induced, free-for-all shopping spree at the Mall of America. Too bad I don’t have one in my backyard. An 11,000 foot mountain. Not a Mall of America.

All the money I’ve made and more is gone. I should be my own bankruptcy chapter. (This is where things get weird and unexplainable.) Yet, there’s this thing called fate that just keeps surprising me at every corner. Just when THE end is imminently near, something happens. I get a little help from an intangible hand. A twist in the old tale. I can’t explain it.

I really, truly, deeply want to visit Macchu Picchu, Peru more than anything in the world. I hear the mysticism and spiritualness surrounding the area can change one’s life forever.

Most of the time I want to kick my own ass for for being so overly melodramatic and blowing things out of proportion. I think I’m becoming a chronic exaggerator. So, you’ve got to learn to disregard the theatrics and know what to take as real and what to leave behind as just pure entertainment. I am an aspiring writer, you know.

So, forgive me for faltering. Although those Seven jeans are really kick ass. I’d wear them everyday if I owned enough pairs. And no, that is not an invitation for me to go out and buy another pair, just simple validation and appreciation for good quality craftsmanship. I must stop the insanity.

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