Oniomania. I don’t know if it’s a real condition or not. But I’ve been thinking about this sort of thing a lot lately as I continue to pay down my credit card and other debt. Especially on days when I am perusing design or fashion magazines. I’m skimming through Wallpaper* magazine today. I shouldn’t. I ought to have it wrenched from my feminine fingertips like the Salvation Army wresting a wino’s whiskey from his booze-addled grasp. For I get a twitching in my ticker that is like a devil’s curse. Sleekly packaged European haircare products give me shivers. Lithesome louche nineteen-year old boy/men in tailored togs stare out from the pages into my swishy soul and offer me all there is to be had. Where is the cog inside that makes me want, want, want pretty things? And where is the pill that quells the desire?
