In the red...

Ah.. Credit cards. What a sweet torture device. Sweet in that I get to buy Antik Denim jeans that are impossible to find here, not to mention the 5 pairs of shoes that I can recall, makeup, perfume, imported foodstuffs (which is great since my "lose four kilos before mom gets here" living-on-diet-weider-and-water diet is in full swing. In any case it's too HOT to eat. But I digress), a new overnight bag, an organising system for my closet, dozens of books, oh and new undies from Victoria's secret (I would have preferred Marks'nsparks, but apparently they don't DO international deliveries, much in the same way that I don't DO carrying. which means M&S are just lazy), because it's bad enough having absolutely no, zero zip zilch nada sex life; unless you count lusting after Gackt, which I don't; but I refuse to walk around in skanky underwear. And why are all the bras here padded? I DARE you to find a non-padded, appropriately coloured bra in Hokkaido. The last time I saw anything vaguely approaching lingerie was in that funky sex shop in Akihabara (don't ask. Just don't), and it was not only horribly expensive, but looked like it would fall apart after one wash.

anyway, the torture part of the credit card comes now, as I try to sleep (obviously not right this second, I'm good but not that good), and have long rambling conversations with myself about how I have a problem and need to get help and this is all another type of addiction and I'm going to end up bankrupt and hungry. It all gets a bit much so I have to listen to some Aqualung and feel sorry for myself. Sometimes I can distract myself by wondering about Gackt's English abilities, or pondering on his teeth (I like good teeth, leave me alone).

so, I have two choices: stop using the card after mom's trip (except for Thailand/London over xmas), or marry rich.

any ideas?