Hello. My name is Ron and I’m a purse o’holic. I prefer that spelling. It’s more upbeat.
I first began to realize I might be addicted when I found myself using keywords on the Internet: clutch, tote, wristlet. I know them all. By the way, remember to use upper case C when you search for Coach. Unless you’re into whistles.
Next, it was DVD’s. I’d freeze frame on the shot of the beautiful girl just to gaze at her Gucci. Lately, I’ve been introducing myself to women in order to ask if they like Juicy Couture. I know. It’s sick.
It’s not easy, you know. Handbags are everywhere. I’d run and hide in my closet, only they’re in there, too. I told my mother they belong to my girlfriend. Only, I haven’t had a girlfriend in ten years. I think she knows.
I’ve had to switch dentists six times. The receptionist keeps noticing me lingering in the waiting room. Have you ever tried to hide a fashion magazine inside a Sports Illustrated? It’s nearly impossible. Especially when the perfume blow-ins keep falling on the floor.
What’s that? You think it’s nothing to be ashamed of? You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that. I wonder if you’d mind signing my petition? I’ll pass it around. It’s an open letter to the White House asking for our own holiday. I like the sound of Happy Handbag Day, but I’m open to suggestions.
While that’s going around, I’d also like to pass out some lyrics I wrote. I brought my guitar. You all know the melody, so let’s sing, shall we?
“On the first day of Purses my Visa gave to me a Gucci made in Italy. On the second day of Purses my Visa gave to me, Dooney and Bourke and a Gucci made in Italy. On the third day of Purses my Visa gave to me three Prada knock-offs, Dooney and Bourke and a Gucci made in Italy. On the…”
Sorry I stopped singing, but I just can’t keep my eyes off your Hermes. Do you mind if I touch it?