Nodding along to Manson, I contemplate my filthy habits. I don’t do drugs mostly because I couldn’t be a lawyer if I got caught, I hate the thought of not being in complete control of my faculties and I have all the self-control of a two year old. Someone awesome said that this is because I have underdeveloped frontal lobes – the area that controls inhibition – and I’m happy with that explanation as any. In my current financial straights (not the Recession – the crap that article clarks get paid) my complete inability to control my spending is a stellar example of why I shouldn’t try drugs:

I’ve tried to give up cutie pies and at five bucks a pop that would equal – gasp!- R150 that will probably amount to a fortune at compound interest by the time I’m too old to spend it. Magazines are another addiction because I love reading and I don’t have the attention span or the time to actually finish a book (this is no trifle – there are at least ten books covered in dust on my bedside pedestal…no I’m not addicted to cleaning and no amount of pharmaceutical help will ever change this, my will is too strong).  Here I’ve made the compromise of skipping months but the remorse when I open the letters section and have no idea what they’re yodeling about for the Gucci bag prize is quite substantial so I try to avoid this particular form of saving.

Instead I’ve been saving on beauty products. Let’s face it  – I will never have the patience to iron my hair ( the first time a hairdresser asked me if I’d prefer ironing my hair I laughed so hard thinking that she was joking…no one else was laughing, apparently people actually do this) but generally, I will admit that skipping The Butchers (my pet name for hairdressers) where they force me to listen the last time they got ratfaced (probably last night, again)/ the looser boyfriend (who they’re still with) etc. and I have to sit still for two hours being pulled/blown/ randomly hit by errant brushes  – is no big sacrifice. Neither is missing my french manicure, waxing (I don’t care what they say it DOES NOT STOP HURTING AFTER A FEW YEARS) or…well anything that involves someone else grooming me. That is until I’m walking hand in hand with Vincent and either this glamazon is obviously checking him out with her perfectly waxed eyebrows arching ever so slightly or he has more men in Parkhurst looking at him than at me. Now I care. I care very much – no woman’s vanity can stand this! And so pretty soon I’ll be forking out another grand so that some Butcher can torture me for two hours.

The moral of the story is that I’m just not that strong and though I don’t like the drugs, they bloody well like me Also, I’ve had the epiphany that controlling my spending is not the answer – it’s by lack of income! So I’m working on that instead – slim ne?