Dear Diary, I absolutely love spending money.
As a proper little Epicurean hedonist, I simply cannot deny my talent for enjoying life's earthly pleasures. The day my salary arrives I transform into a butterfly, immediately planning activities, texting everyone alive, organizing parties and asking, "So… where are we going on vacation?"
By day ten I'm wondering where my paycheck disappeared to, borrowing, reshuffling expenses, and honestly — not caring very much. You only live once, and I refuse to be buried with savings. I'm happy when I have money, and somehow just as happy when I don't — as long as I get to spend it. My spirit is indestructible.
A friend who saves half her salary every month tells me she envies how much fun I have while spending mine. I usually start questioning my choices only when guilt kicks in because I've booked another trendy restaurant.
Seven days on a quiet seaside vacation and there was nothing to buy. On day eight we arrived in Neos Marmaras. Suddenly my happiness became directly proportional to the number of souvenir shops and neon signs. That's where I practice therapeutic, pointless spending. Before me, like the Ionic order, rose magnets, necklaces, bracelets. And just like that — magnet ex machina — my anxiety is cured.
I'm living and breathing Becky Bloomwood. After all, I signed up for ballet at five years old simply because I wanted the ballet clothes. What else is there to conclude? Take all my money, Disneyland. I'm the slave of consumerism — lights, colours, flavours, smells, stories. Everything's a spectacle to me. I'm not a snob, I just genuinely love living.
Until total bankruptcy, amuse-bouche.