shopping, no fucking

This is my desk. This here, this is a full ashtray. It sits there in a free spot on the light-brown veneer. The rest of said desk is not to be seen. Covered in paperwork, paper, work. Paper I work on. Paper I should work on. Paper I have worked on already. Paper I will simply ignore until the third reminder to hand it in within the next two weeks reaches my otherwise empty letterbox. I love ignoring the paperwork. Although it costs me money - mainly the alimony my father's employer has to pay me since my father died - it stills gives me a feeling of self-determination. There's also a lot of litter on this desk. Sometimes, I confuse litter with letter and throw it all away - with the result that another reminder lies on the kitchen table. At this desk I sit and wonder.
I met up with Chrissie today, after uni. We were to go shopping for presents, and shop we did. Being at a loss what to get our 'beloved ones', we decided we'd just go with the flow, see where it takes us and buy whatever we thought appropriate. However, we soon found that where other people shopped wasn't exactly what we were looking for, so we headed to the alternative quarters of town and pestered the shop attendants in the little boutiques. 'Oh, I love this, but it's so fucking expensive.' 'Look at that, man, who'd buy that shit?' 'I guess I'll have that for Spanish Ana, she's into stationary as well.' 'I've no frigging idea what to get my mother. She'll be cheesed off anyways, so I could just as well go for something cheap.' 'You mean cheap or inexpensive? Cheap they have galore, whereas for the latter...' Many an angry looks we got, but somehow it felt good to behave like a teenager again. In the end, all the hurrying and pushing and shoving and chatter and pointless remarks of other shoppers annoyed me. And what I came home with were some tidbits and the news that I'll have to pay 325 Euros for a pair of glasses that suit me. Merry Christmas!
Shopping. What do I get out of it? Nothing much, except for the mundane pleasure of spending money I don't even really have. I find it satisfying to be able to say: Hey, I'm living off a minimum of money; in fact, when all's added up, I have less than the average single on the dole, and still I can afford decent clothes. See, you're not lacking money; you lack a sense of dress. I am cheap, I admit it.
What do others get out of it, especially around Christmas? Why do they push and shove as if every item in the shop was there only once? Why the hurry, why the aggression, why so rude? What makes them tick?
There used to be a time when I didn't understand why people would go shopping at all. I wore what I found in the cupboard and that was it. These times are past. Ever since I've been on medication I've grown increasingly... mediocre? I've turned into a fashion victim and cannot find anything bad about it. Sometimes, I feel the argument brought forth by women with too many shoes, namely that shopping is as relaxing as it is addictive, contains a grain of truth. Though I find it is more a short-lived relief, a release of tension if you will, it has something to it that so far I've only found in habits generally considered not too healthy. Put it that way, I've exchanged sharp objects and alcohol for a corduroy skirt and white pills. I am still not sure if this was a bargain.
What makes people tick? With regret, I have to confess that I do not know - nor probably ever will. Someone once said to me that he always feels bad when passing a beggar in street because he doesn't give him any of his change. In short, he was conscience-smitten. That could be helped if he'd part with some coins. Now, I for my part also feel bad when I pass a beggar in the streets. I feel bad for not feeling bad about the fact that I don't give them any money. I simply don't care about them. They don't matter to me. Does that make me a bad person? Does it make me a bad person to gleefully walk past some poor sod while I am all wrapped up in the warm flood that follows any kind of self-mutilation - be it of the body or of the purse? Does it make me a bad person? Did I just assume my purse was a part of me? Does that make me, apart from already being a bad person, does that also make me a bloody capitalist swine? And will I be allowed to just say yes and move on?
I'm staying up way too late. I miss my lectures in the morning. I'm becoming far too outspoken in here. I'm trying to string my thoughts together, end up with loose ends, a patch-work quilt ripped apart. I think about shopping. No fucking for me. Do I feel bad about it? Does it make me think? I guess so.