I hate you for already using the column title "Object Lust." I don't even think you understand what it really means. No, Provencal parfum and organic groceries and Netflix are not the same. You will never know what Object Lust really is, the way a wide-set paperback can give me arrhythmia or that just-so coral lampshade or the Cold-War-Red enamel on that bracelet, 1965 maybe but not 1967. The perfect image and feel and meaning of every goddamn thing I own. No, no, you will never understand Object Lust like I do, Salon.com, and it isn't fair.
I need a new catchy phrase.
From here on, this blog is a battle to prove that I, in fact, rightfully am owed that titled. Watch it, Salon.com