back into the Amazon.com abyss!
I log in every so often and cast a maternal eye over the jewels of my shopping cart. They beckon me, cajole me, shimmer for me, beg me to PROCEED TO CHECKOUT and set them on their journey to me.
I am in a constant battle with myself. I mean, 'Moab Is My Washpot', I just have to see you. I must have you. Look at Mr Fry's bright, sharp face on the cover. I need his tales to whip me, leave me with big red welts of insight.
I log in every so often and cast a maternal eye over the jewels of my shopping cart. They beckon me, cajole me, shimmer for me, beg me to PROCEED TO CHECKOUT and set them on their journey to me.
I am in a constant battle with myself. I mean, 'Moab Is My Washpot', I just have to see you. I must have you. Look at Mr Fry's bright, sharp face on the cover. I need his tales to whip me, leave me with big red welts of insight.
And the Fry memoir is probably the one I least pine for out of my collection of (the now culled to) 13 brilliant little trinkets. 13? Has to be a good thing.
This is the light, bright side of consumerism gone made. I mean, it's a thirst for words, for music, for art, for learning. How can that be bad?
This is my therapy.
There will be relapses. (Sweet, sweet relapses) That's par for the course. But, for now, I lay in waiting.
2 comments:
It's never as simple as black or white. Tea, black. Every now and again I'll add milk, but I generally regret it. Coffee, I seesaw between white and black, depending on my need for a real kick in the pants to get myself going, the weather, my mood. There's only one certainty - no sugar. Oh, and I'm not into full cream milk, it's too rich.
I love reading.
Tell your mate, that lazy sleeping cunt, to wake up and add our comments.
Post a Comment