It should come to no surprise that I, Justin Keeler, am destined for Shopaholics Anonymous much like Becky Bloomwood, female lead of the movie and novel Confessions of a Shopaholic. If there were anything Becky and I would agree on (what wouldn't we agree on?) it would be that clothes are basically manna from heaven. We both like having our money where we can see it, hanging in our closets, and that fashion is perhaps one of the most important things in life.

I like to think I have come a far way since my horrendous "style" in high school. Yes, I wore sweatpants and hoodies to classes almost everyday and I cringe every time I think of the days before "Justin 2.0". They say that you learn many valuable lessons when you graduate high school and one of the biggest lessons I learned is the power of clothing. Clothes, in essence, are art. They're the art that we eat, live, and breath in. We go about our daily lives in the clothes we take home in shopping bags, not thinking of the countless jobs that led to the creation of our favorite pair of denim jeans we trust almost more than any person we know.

In the movie Confessions of a Shopaholic Becky winds up going through her entire closet and attempts (in vain) to get rid of her clothes. Packing away everything in vacuum cubes and stored in her closets, Becky winds up further down the rabbit hole as debt collector Derek winds up chasing her down. By this point in my life I can practically recite the entire movie word by word and every time I watch the scene in Shopaholics Anonymous I can't help but sigh, knowing that if I don't try controlling my urges to have even more material wealth I'm gonna end up there too.

Much like poor Becky (don't worry, it ends well for her) I constantly find myself being tempted to swipe my magical plastic card in exchange for something soft, plush, and stylish. I've noticed that my eyes are drawn more to things that sparkle, shine, or that are just completely off the wall different I want to somehow make them work. Which is why recently, much like Becky, I have attempted my first ever purge of my closet with meager results.

Unlike Becky Bloomwood I'm not a famous columnist (yet, hopefully one day) and my clothes are not name brands. Thankfully my finances are not completely ruined and down the tubes, I'm not thousands of dollars in debt, but heaven help me if I ever seen that XS gold printed bomber jacket at Forever 21 again.

I purged my closet this weekend and tossed out four shirts that I'm semi-sure I'll never miss again. The clothes we pick as fully functioning members of society are, in essence, a part of a dream look. When we shop, rather when people like me shop, we see this wonderful image in our head of what the perfect outfit would look like. Often that image in our head entails loads of retail therapy and pretty soon that look is hanging up in our closet no matter the cost.

The greatest wisdom, wisdom that can really apply to anyone in all honesty, are spoken by the women whom I'm sure is like my fictional soul sister. "A man will never love you or treat you as well as a store. If a man doesn't fit, you can't exchange him seven days later for a gorgeous cashmere sweater. And a store always smells good. A store can awaken a lust for things you never even knew you needed"(Confessions of a Shopaholic, Sophia Kinsella). Becky Bloomwood monologues while walking the strip, talking about the importance of a good fit, both personally and relationship wise.

At the cost of four shirts being donated away (and boy does it hurt to be writing this) I had to say the experience was a bit liberating. Mostly scary, but a bit liberating. People often turn to shopping as a way of coping for their real problems, maybe I do too, but I have to say I almost never feel happier then when I'm walking out of Express Men with a new cardigan in my grip. After all, when I buy things, I've already planned out four different looks I'm going to incorporate it into.

Perhaps people like me will wind up going broke from temptation, but going broke never looked so good.