confessions of a shopaholic

I have a problem.

I really do.

It's not my fault. That's what all the crazies say, right?

I blame my mother.
Except honestly though, have you ever seen that woman's style?

Frances H. can most definitly pull off some expensive wares from one Mr. Joseph Ribcoff.

Fan of the name designers, she is.

And my Peepaw.

Don't even get me started on that man in a shop.

Yet I digress.

This isn't about the diseased limbs of my family tree. No.
This is about me.

It is afterall, my blog.

Go get your own.

This is about my very own physiological downfall.

My weakness.

My achilles heel.

The noose on the neck of my being.
Shopping.

Now, please do not judge me.

I am not your average ditz who enjoys: "boys, talking on the phone, shopping, and rainbows. like totally!"

You know; the very one ending every sentence with an upward slant, punctuated by an infinitly perky exclamation mark.

egh.

Not at all.

The furthest thing possible, in fact.

Yet I simply cannot deny the boldly carved writings on the wall of my life,

"I, Hunter Stevens, am a shopaholic."

HELP!

I am addicted to fashion.

Fedoras are my heroin.

Scarves my personal crystal meth.

Dresses are my cocaine and skinny jeans, my marijuana. (The appeal not quite as strong you understand.)

Dainty tops are like alcohol rushing into my bloodstream,

and v neck tees, oh lord, are the speed to jumpstart my system.

And shoes, beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeppppppppppppppppppppppp.

overdose.

Where there is a will, there is a way.

Where there is a will, there is a way.

I do not need you, silly little purse.

My life is full.

My life is happy.

My life is....hopefully, shopping free.

While this entire post is comical at best,

it is also a contract (binding tighter than a covenant with an archangel) that my relationship with shopping is dying a painful death.

Sigh.

I am reformed.

That is all.