I am good at thrifting. No, I am pathetically good at it. When I start to feel like I'm drowning in the banalities of every day life, the first thing I do is head to the teeny, tiny shopping center near home that is solely dedicated to housing the antiquities and remnants of cute, little old ladies whose earlobes have sagged past the point of wearing gaudy clip on earrings. I love sifting through dusty racks of clothes, even though they smell like a wet sponge that's been sitting out too long, and keeping my eyes peeled for the most ridiculous of the undesirables. Those pink velvet lined jewelry containers hold all the dearest, over-the-top pieces that probably, in the prime of their lives, proved lucrative to their owners. Maybe got them a few dates or a hot make-out session in the back of a Chevy. Each item in that store has a story, each of them ended up in these temporary homes of transition, only to end up in the greedy hands of each of us, searching for something to give meaning to. To ressurect. It's beautiful. It's a little weird, like the dark side of consumerism, but it's a paradox. And a lovely one at that.
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