Mad about Le Boy…

 

 

Presently I am in the deep and lustful throes of an unrequited love.  My object of desire, is certainly guilty of giving me the run-around.  For one I can never ever seem to get a hold of him, and secondly on the rare occasion that we do cross paths, there is a constant line of women waiting around the block for the chance to snap him up.  My prospective lover only frequents the most exclusive parts of town, and frankly I just don’t know if I can afford to take our imaginary liaison any further.

 

The man in question, is not really a man; but a Boy, sorry, Le Boy.  Which isn’t really a Boy, but a handbag by Chanel.  Got it?  The Boy, like so many of the best relationships, came into my life suddenly and unexpectedly.  Never fearful of commitment, my affection in Chanel bag world had always been fixed on the Classic Flap.  Ever since Karl threw some Cs on that bitch, I had believed myself sure that the battle for my heart had now been won.  That was of course until the day I first cast my infatuated eyes on Le Boy.

 

They say that love can do strange things to mortals.  Even the most intelligent of our kind find themselves rationalising away the million flaws of their beloved.  In my case I have found myself contemplating the parting of myself from the princely sum of £3480.  Unlike the other inhabitants living in the Metropolitan Borough of Blogging and YouTube; I do not have an inexplicable, inelastic income, which I can whimsically fritter away on designer goods.  I’m always left scratching my head after seeing many a video in which a YouTuber faithfully swears that they are ‘not rich’, ‘they work a normal job’ (If anyone knows of one of these mythical jobs please leave details in the comments section) and that they afford luxury by ‘not going out’.  Despite living a nearly identical lifestyle, I am still sans bag.

 

A lover’s jealousy is a terrible and dangerous thing.  Left unchecked it can lead to moments of temporary insanity and obsession. The Boy is my laptop, tablet and phone backdrop. I feel now would be a sensible time to seek medical assistance; perhaps a cardiologist might help. For each time I see the glimmering form of two golden Cs centred within a Lego inspired clasp, my heart unmistakably misses a beat.  Is it wrong dear reader, that the murky world of ‘Boy Bag Unboxings’ has become an illicit, late night pornographic treat?

 

I realise wholeheartedly that this simply cannot go on for much longer.  My paramour and I must declare our love openly, bringing the midnight activity of Pinterest stalking firmly to an end.  Or we must at last go our separate ways. Of our compatibility, I have little doubt.   I have full confidence that you’d be the perfect companion.  Changing weather and seasons could not dull your appeal.  The brightest sun, nor a brilliant moon would detract from your shine.

 

We’d be great for each other.  There I said it.  I want you more than all of the other useless, over- priced objects of beauty in the world.  I’m willing to pay the cost to make you mine.  After all a wise man once said: ‘You can’t put a price on love.’