I have a desire…nay a lust for red, crocodile (but not *real* crocodile…fake for me, please) Hermes birkin bag. I have never had lust for an accessory in my entire life. For instance, I only have 7 or 8 styles of shoes; (tennies, flats, loafers, sandals, low heel, mid heel, OMFG heel, CFM thigh high boots.) Granted, there’s assorted colors and subsets…but still; basically 7 or 8 styles…almost none of which I get wear very often, since I got domesticated. (Well…outside the house, that is…rawr!) I don’t have tons of jewelry. My entire purse collection could fit in a few inches of shelf space. I’m not even sure I own a belt.
But I have lust in my heart for this bag. Major lust. The kind of lust that can usually only be found after the words “Dear Penthouse, I never thought I’d be writing you, but…” I want to cuddle this bag, hold it, take it home, sleep with it under my pillow, give it a nickname and make it my own.
I think the attraction is so strong because it’s one of those things I will never own. Cause, really…I could buy a car for what a birkin bag would cost, and that’s just stupid. Beyond stupid, that’s a special kind of “what is wrong with you?” insane. A $13,000.00 purse is just obscene. It’s an affront to everything I believe in.
And yet…I really want that bag.
Have I mentioned that I think I’m going to buy a Volvo?
Something is wrong with me, terribly, terribly wrong with me.
Me, I’m betting on an alien. Damn aliens. They know I’m allergic to the probes.