No one will cry at my funeral

Went on a beautiful shopping spree today. I have no credit card but a Topshop card with £100 pounds on it. I went in, and I looked about, and I turned around, and looked back in the area I had previously checked, then turned around and looked some more. I concluded four items I decided I really wanted, which were as follows:









I bought some extremely cheap, fake pearl earrings which came in a three-pack with some fake diamond ones and some fake mini-hooped ones. I bought the jacket in the first picture, and I am cheaply in love with it. I say cheap, it was £70 pounds. I have to make up for my disappointing persona in one way or another, so I buy large and wear elegance. Just like a Victorian. If I could team it up with some Manically glamorous, trashy fuckhead kind of outfit I would be sincerely happy. I miss those days I would perch from my bedpost and throw my tragically sliced-up mauve cardigan on over my far-too-long leopard print vest and some subtle fishnet-like leggings that ripped the first day I got them, that I continued to wear. Or my skinny white jeans when they actually had been skinny, and a leopard print cardigan always in the wrong colour. Blacked-up eyes, subtly red lipstick, hair far too short and far too black. Pardon me, there is no such thing as far too short. My hair now, is a kind of short that I am happy with. A kind of short that can wrap up the back of your head, but leaves your face free so you can't hide behind it, even if you really wish you could. I wear a happy face on a Saturday. I have discovered the secret to happiness. It is losing weight. When I am bored I am unhappy, and all through Sunday to Monday I am bored. But not Saturday. It's a secret.