Magnolia Hope Chest.

In their plot to take over society with shiplap and oversized wall clocks, Fixer Upper home renovation stars Chip and Joanna Gaines have conquered the western U.S. state by state with their cute little stores. Even towns as bite-sized as this one have fallen prey to Joanna’s love of industrial farmhouse chic and white subway tile. This location is less than a year old. I can see their thinking: the rural, down-home image looks good on their website, and they know that their star power will draw shoppers from every town in the county. That a sleek bronze glass-front building such as this one, while scaled back in comparison to its Texan motherland, is permitted to sit comfortably between Shahad’s Toy Shop and Mary Had a Little Boutique is an abomination.

My mind flickers to my sister Athena, who loves the Gaines style: rustic décor with an upper-middle-class price tag that makes her feel she’s relatable and down to earth. I remember being in the upper upper class, trying to persuade Macy’s to stock my perfume label while considering myself too good to shop at Macy’s. Now I clip Dollar General coupons.

After my finances imploded, I dreaded my shopping runs for fear of being photographed perusing the clearance sections. Even though I couldn’t afford high-end products anymore, I still had my pride. But with Christmas around the corner, I’ve been frantic to find gifts for my wealthy family, who are congregating up the mountain three days from now. A couple of weeks ago, I bit the bullet and entered the contact sport beloved by millions of American citizens known as Black Friday shopping.

There I was, skulking into Magnolia (with sunglasses and a wig) at six in the morning the day after Thanksgiving—a little bit hungover, brooding over spending the holiday alone—and I began filling my cart.

Prices were low. Adrenaline was high. I’d just nabbed an antique-style wall sconce at half off, which I knew Athena would love—the rush gave me such tunnel vision that, medically, I cannot be held liable for my actions. A woman and I brawled over a reclaimed-wood recipe box, the police were called, and we were both dragged from the store with lifetime bans.

I kept shouting “It’s not me!” for some reason. I remember being devastated to lose the wall sconce, which I’d never be able to afford at regular price. I was also devastated by the teenage assistant manager, who called me ma’am, which resulted in a full breakdown. I can’t be a ma’am, I’m only twenty-three! Or I was a few years ago, anyway. I’m pretty sure I’m twenty-six, but I spent so many years being twenty-one that I’d have to check my driver’s license to be sure.

Chip and Joanna are my mortal enemies now, discriminating by expecting customers to pay with money rather than exposure, even though I would have basically done them a favor by letting them give me merchandise. I have 9.3 million followers on Instagram.