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Sunday, July 13, 2003

Why is it that every single thing that's out of our purchasing reach glows with an unearthly glow. A shining corona surrounds the merchandise, every fluid movement of its rays accompanied by a heavenly choir singing "You want this. You can't live without it. You're the biggest loser on the planet if you don't buy this..." An endless deluge of drool threatens to flow from your mouth at the exact moment you hear the siren song. You try to tear your eyes off the prize but it's stuck fast like a week old band-aid to your leg hair. You're helpless to do anything about it.

Days and weeks pass and the obssession grows even more. The merchandise has crawled its way up to the towering pedestal of your mind and the only way shut the voices up is to buy it. There are only two possible outcomes if and when you have succeeded in coming up with the moolah: First, when you come back to buy it, you'll find the hazy glow around it still intact. The heavenly choir changes its tune to a song of victory as you march towards the cashier with a twinkle in your eyes and a stupid grin on your face. After a few days the accumulating dust obscures the glow of your prize, the heavenly voices have stopped singing the moment the cashier rang up a sale and you're now moving on to a new obsession. Second scenario, you come back to buy it and you're shocked, dismayed, and frustrated to find the mystery surrounding it is gone. It's tarnished. It's nothing. Pffft! Kapoot. By this time the ideal image in your mind has already eclipsed the real thing. And do you know why? Elementary, my dear Watson, it's all part of the game, a sport appealing to our base selves. A game called acquisition.

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