Sunday, May 14, 2006

Red tips

Readerdroid came by my place yesterday. She asked me how I was, and observed that among all her friends, I am the only one who always answers with a shopping list.

It's true. I do.

Santa's contemplating suicide.

Ever since I started actively using eBay (and how could I not? A pair of Guillaume Hinfray d'Orsays for one-fifth of the retail price? Vintage Schiaparelli in the original box? A private lot of Lanvin scarves serving no meaningful purpose? Spare me the lecture - these are my liquid assets), I've noticed a dip in my libido.

Not to say my libido was ever springing through the cracks like bathroom mildew, but it's never been hesitant to make a cameo appearance before, and lately it's been quieter than an on-duty NSA agent. That is, until late last night when I awoke to a tremendous ...


The point is, if I'm going to be addicted to something, it might as well be sartorial in nature. Sex requires the kind of persistence I'm awfully glad I don't possess. Italian-crafted footwear offer the taste with none of the calories, and what's more, you don't have to owe them an entire evening of entertainment ending in the corner of a bar lit by the remains of half-molten aromatherapy candles the chick with the lopsided boobs stole from the 99 cent store down the street from the Kama Sutra Castle which you frequented until the cops busted them for panda smuggling, prompting you pack your bags and fly to Haiti, building houses for "coloureds" in a moment of conscientious clarity helped along by the occasional tax break or ten.

The point is, my subconscious might be telling me something in dire need of attention and provocation. Perhaps it is saying ...

Eureka! Buy more shoes! Well, Mr. Suppressed Psyche, if you say so. No point resisting intuition - braver men have fought and failed.

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