E asked me why I didn’t buy anything. It’s not because I’m too high brow to buy hand me down clothes (I cringe by mere sight of “high brow” in this sentence, believe me). I told him that it’s a psychological thing. It’s not a matter of finding the prettiest top or dress amongst mountains of clothing, really. But there’s this unexplainable satisfaction I get from buying “new” things. And by that, I don’t mean branded ones. I’d rather spend my hard-earned money on books than purchase a 300-worth top. That’s how cheap / frugal I am. But still, I get this genuine joy in smelling my new things no matter where they came from, in taking them out from their crisp bags or boxes, or carefully tearing out their tag prices.
E said its a fetish. It’s downright consumerist fetishism, I said. I’ve actually developed a disease brought by this phenomenon patronized by everyone called globalization. Fuck.
***
That afternoon, we braved the heavy rain with a bag full of surfer shirts. At least, E was happy.
