I imagine heroin feels a lot like outbidding someone by five cents in the last three seconds of an auction.  That dopa hit.  You want to announce your victory to the masses, but you release a single fist pump into the air and relish the win all to yourself, because if you let your S.O. know that you’ve added yet another gold-tone heart necklace to your collection, they’ll only let the wind from your sails by reminding you that rent is also due.  You don’t need that kind of energy affecting your high.

In actuality, you release the wind from your own sails when you quickly realize you’ve just relapsed.  You told yourself you weren’t going to buy anything today.  Congratulations, you made it to two o’clock before making a purchase.  It’s good to celebrate the small wins.

We, the accessory and apparel addicts, are a legion of sick, stylish, servants to fashion.  One day you will find me standing by the side of the road, glittering from head to Gucci loafer, clutching a cardboard sign that reads, “Will work for vintage Feraud”.  We laugh, but I feel that day is closer than I like to imagine.

Less than two hours following my auction win, I find myself putting in an offer on a dress I already own, in a different color.  The dress is striped with shades of brown, and while I prefer black, I am reminded of a belt, oh wait—two belts, recently acquired, that would go well with the tan twin.  Some may call this behavior “deranged “, and they may be right.  But I guess I’ll never know, because I don’t associate with that kind of negativity.