I am a bag whore. There. I said it. Supposedly admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery. But what if you don’t want to recover? What if you only want to be known for what you are in all of it’s wickedly splendid glory??
I realised I am a bag whore last Thursday evening (24 February if you must know) when, while browsing through Hallmark in one of the malls near my house. I was there to buy a birthday card for my dear friend Punk‘s birthday. She turned 30 last week and I was late getting out the present, but I couldn’t send it without a card so I had to get one. As I was walking out of the shop, I noticed a line of bags (purses to all of you girly-girls) which had been designed by flight attendants. All of them appealed to me. I could’ve bought any one of them, or all of them.
I bought nothing more than the card, however, because it was then that I realised that I am a bag whore. I don’t need any more bags. I have three handmade bags that are perfectly usable, plus one bigger store bought Tinkerbelle bag which I use when I want to carry something big. I don’t need anymore bags.
But of course, that hasn’t stopped me from lusting after other bags.
I’m such a whore.