Help me help myself

Fall is upon us, which means only one thing. I need new clothes. Sadly, seasonal wardrobes don't just offer themselves up, so I also need funding. I am open to ideas. The concept of having some sort of financial backer with whom I trade other favors is likely out of the question, since Rob, while sweet--and certainly generous, staunchly refuses to be my sugar daddy. He encourages behaviors like "having a job" and "paying off debt."
The idea here is that I am trying to save money and be responsible. But I think I'm actually becoming slightly crazy and more than a little materialistic. I have started to treat the retail stores in Soho more like museums than viable places to purchase goods. Ooohhh, classic skinny black work pants at Theory. Don't touch, just admire. This appreciation occasionally turns into hostility. I hate you, adorable brown boots on ShopBop.com. I hope you burst into flame before anyone can buy you.
Psycho.
OK, obviously this is massive exaggeration, but the true part is that if anyone wants to give me money to buy a new wardrobe, I have favors to trade. I make a mean apple crisp and I will totally cut your hair.