Confessions of a shopaholic? Bullshit. No one’s making that much money back from USED clothing.

Here’s what I was going to do today:

Take my remaining 150 euros (have to wait until next week to get paid for last month) to the bank in my lunch break and that way this evening I was going to book my flights to London and back home for next month. I’m going to take a month off in total. It’s gonna be AWE SOME and I am going to snail-trail from one drunken fuck to the next, with the help of my super wingman who is the most brilliant flirt ever but in a good relationship now so she has to live vicariously through me….

It’s gonna be super fantastic.

Anyway so that was the plan, a sensible plan, get the tickets booked now when they’re cheap. I’m also going to a three day festival in England while I’m there so have to book that ticket before they run out. Anyway. Today was going to get some of that sorted.

But you know where this is going, don’t you?

That’s right.

I did not follow through, and in usual MoFO style I didn’t just not follow through, I went the other way, spectacularly.

I started walking to the bank in my lunch break, and wound up in a different place altogether, this shop I like that sells very flattering dresses and they aren’t too expensive, either. I tried on ONE DRESS. Because… I can’t remember but I rustled up some excuse for why I should try it on. That looked shitty on me, so I tried on another 10, forgetting all about how I initially only allowed myself the one dress because of some reason like it was very very cheap or something, it doesn’t matter, it was definitely a shitty reason. But once I’ve allowed myself to open my wallet for whatever reason, the seal is broken. The floodgates are open. It’s a free for all. So I collapsed and hummed and hawed over one dress that is really nice on, and because there were two colours of the same dress, I skipped talking myself into buying it and went straight to “which colour?”

I feel like I was tricked in some way, with the choice of colours. It blind sided me.

So I left that shop with a dress, amusing the saleswoman by requesting her smallest bag possible and scrunching the dress up so it would fit in my handbag inconspicuously. She enquired. I tell her I’m supposed to be picking something up for work, and she titters conspiratorily. It’s much simpler than “I will walk past some friends, friends of the family and see coworkers back at the shop, and they all know my personal situation and I don’t want them to know how much of a ridiculous mess I am that even though I have debt and bills and want to move countries, I’m still shopping”

Then feeling very disappointed and confused with myself, and not entirely sure how I even wound up inside a shop to start with, wasn’t I going to the bank? And I went back to work and did two miserable hours there where I suffered particularly in my knees and feet, I was in a lot of pain…which I think was all an elaborate psychological headfuck staged by ME, all so I could convince myself I needed new shoes. Because the only open shoes I have are totally flat sandals, and anything else is way too sweaty to be at work in this heat all day. So I managed to leave work entirely logically justified in the idea that I needed a new pair of shoes and what luck! The sales are on, I’m practically saving money. So I wound up in a shoe shop and bought myself a pair of light brown (camel? is that the colour?) mid-heel leather wedges. I honestly hate wedges and find them monstrously unattractive, but the validity of my buying shoes in the first place rested entirely on this “something comfy to work all day standing up” so they were the only viable option. They are actually really nice as wedges go. They’re no sexy stilletos, but I can’t wear sexy high heels for that many hours and not actually cave and become a prostitute (oh dear sweet mother of mercy, I’ll do anything if I can just lie down for a while…) from the pain of it. But they aren’t ugly like those fucking espadrilles with the fake rope effect heel and some fugly crippled toes sprawling out a hole in the front. They are pretty classy looking shoes actually. And they match my SERIOUS BUSINESS PERSON handbag which is kind of like a briefcase except stuffed with crumbs and rubbish and gadgets and utensils and chewing gum stuck to scraps of paper because my mum taught me not to litter.

The handbag is also new, I bought it recently but it already looks about as fresh as a gypsy’s armpit. Oh my fuck, typing those two words made me vomit a little tiny bit into my mouth. Which I swallowed, because I just changed my sheets yesterday and I’m not about to do it again any time soon. (I know surprising I didn’t do a blog post about that major achievement in my life, but after changing the sheets I was so weak and tired I didn’t have any energy left to type, so I just played some Fallout.)

Anyway. I arrived home and had spent pretty much all my money. I had a quick stop in Lidl and stocked up on tuna and grapefruits and plain yoghurt, and felt really good about my cart compared to all the eastern europeans around me buying mysterious sweet things and frozen things, and then I got to the checkout and the surly cow with the REALLY glittery eyeshadow every day of the week asked me for the money and I remembered horrible, violently, that I have to pay for my food, too. I forget to factor food into my accounts. So I have no money left now, and I won’t be able to book my flights or my festival ticket until next week when the boss gets back.

Urgh. Stupid.

But I’m doing so well with the diet, I made myself something I call “magic salad” which is a meal I invented from sheer lazyness and not having anything decent to eat in the house and not wanting to empty the dishwasher… yeah, basically lazyness. But it’s healthy, it has all the food groups (crunchy, was once alive, healthy, fatty, and salty)

I call it magic salad because really I don’t do any cooking since husband moved out, there’s no one to impress… but magic salad is good enough for me, and it’s magic because I used to just eat the ingredients on their own, from the tin, but that didn’t satisfy me.

Magic Salad. Serves 1 single person with very little motivation, energy, or self respect, or desire to nourish themselves.


1 tin of tuna, drained

1 tin of chickpeas “garbanzos”, drained

1 avocado you bought a week ago when you wanted an avocado and only now is it edible, but you couldn’t be arsed doing anything fancy with it any more. The window of inspiration with avocados closes much quicker than they ripen.


Get a bowl. Put all the ingredients in the bowl. Squeeze a bit of lemon on top. Mix and eat in bed, alone. Promise yourself, tomorrow you will make some real food. Cry a little bit inside, because tomorrow you won’t have any avocado left and you will wind up eating magic salad made from just chickpeas and tuna. And the next day you will just have a tin of tuna and you won’t even put it in a bowl, because why should you? But some of the oil will drip onto your clean sheets. And you won’t change them straight away. And every morning for a week you will wake up with the smell of tuna in your nose, and at night you will dream of lesbian sex and it will freak you out until you change those sheets and buy some more avocado.

Man my leg really hurts, I’m thinking maybe I should have got a more sensible pair of shoes to be my comfy work shoes. These are pretty high… they’re nice though. I like them, I do. Except they don’t really go with anything I have, but I don’t give a fuck about that. I don’t believe in matching shit, but Italians do, so I have to be prepared for some bemused looks as I walk around town in my brown wedges and black dresses… ooh I just remembered I got that dress today. It’s pretty short, but it’s nice. Oh FUCK I’m a mess, when will I stop buying shit? WHEN? It’s not fair. It’s not fair, what I have to deal with. Can I not just have one psychological meltdown at a time? No.

It’s ok though the guilt is outweighed for now by the endorphines of money spending. Hooray. And I have new shoes and a new dress, I can’t be too pissy. Ok my leg really hurts now. Good night.


2 responses to “Confessions of a shopaholic? Bullshit. No one’s making that much money back from USED clothing.

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