I’m a sucker for those “What the Hell is in My Frustratingly Organized Bag?” blog posts.
Here is my contribution to that sphere of knowledge, vast as it may already be:
So, what the hell is in that bag, you ask?
Bam. That’s what’s in that bag, ya jerk! I’ve left this photo really large so you can click on it and get all nosy.
I spy, starting at the top: 3 pale yellow beads and a handful of gold chains – my sun glasses, rose-tinted chosen by the local Glasses Wizard – 2 cassette tapes – a stack of With Care post cards – a singular I’m Your Present post card – an unprotected, highly crushable, bottle of mint green nail polish – eye glass case – singular arcade ticket and bottle cap from a “China Cola” – hard-won switchblade comb – pizza-related paraphernalia – lipsticks – lonely, spring-loaded key chain – earringz – PEZ swag – WC box with some mess-up tie clips that I have been distributing to dude friends that I think own ties (rare) – wallet – over $10 in quarters that I didn’t even know were in there! – notes to self – the best pen ever, c/o “Secret Door” Cozzens – “Trans” ink – chapstick purchased from a Rite Aid in TN that also had a decent booze selection.
15 year-old mix tape still gets played. 15 years and I’m still fast forwarding over the “All About Eve” songs.
Somewhere in time, I became the kind of person who finds it IMPERATIVE to have at least 3 lipsticks in slightly varying shades near their person at all times. I’m not proud but I feel like we have a pretty good thing going and that I can be “real” with you.
Last night, I invented a thing that I call “Pizza Therapy” wherein, SadLiz*, after a few days of subsisting on air and tortilla chips, demands pizza, garlic knots, and french fries. I eat a bunch, feel full and greasy, then fall asleep, fully dressed, for 12 hours. In this highly clinical study, Pizza Therapy worked like a charm. I’m positively radiant today. Thanks, Pizza Therapy!
*bearer of that dark, heavy-yet-hollow, kind-of-hormonally-triggered depressive state.