I thought I was a minimalist, totally opposed to the gluttony of empty consumerism. I’d strut through America’s cavalcade of commercial excess, my nose held high above the stench of my fellow K-Mart shoppers, disdainful of their impulse buys and their conspicuous Biebermania. Was I the one buying Pumpkin Spice Tylenol and Calvin Klein Cheerios? Was I loading up on 4-D smart TVs and jet ski hot tubs like the rest of the cud chewers? No. I was a celibate shopper, untainted by manufactured desire. I was in a state of Buddhist transcendence, impervious to Hollywood trailers or viral marketing for instant pudding. I lived with blissful nothingness.
