Saturday, April 11, 2015

My Purse (Bag?) is a Shit Hole

I've said before that my house is a shit hole and also that my car is a shit hole on wheels. It goes without saying that by the time your house and your car are both shit holes, it's a pretty good bet that your purse is a shit hole too. 

Frankly, it's a heinous scarlet letter-sized badge of shame and old lady-hood that I even have a "purse" at all. I would feel better calling it a "bag." But that's a fucking lie. It's a purse and there's no getting around it, and it's a shit hole, and there's no getting around that either.

As you can probably tell from my vile and disgusting purse, it is totally impossible to find anything at all in there, much less anything of use or value. My children will ask, "Mom, do you have a band aid?" No. Sorry. You'll have to bleed until your wound coagulates and scabs over. "A tissue?" Use your sleeve--YOURS, I said. Not mine. "Wet wipe?" Find a sink. Or just lick your hand. "A snaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack?" FUCK to the no you little assholes! No child ever starved from not eating a snack. What is it with kids and snacks? SNACKSNACKSNACKSNACKSNACK. Enough with the fucking snacks. You're not hypoglycemic. Wait for lunch. And anyway, why would I have any of these things? Why would my purse contain a SINGLE FUCKING THING to help or assist my own children in any way with their happiness or comfort?

It wouldn't.

To the contrary, my purse is a black hole of self-absorption and narcissism. Behold! 100 different medications and products (for me of course; not my kids): sucrets, nasal spray, immodium, antihistamines, inhalers, asprin, lip balm, eye liner, vitamin drink powder from Costco, iPhone ear buds, dental floss (used and unused), Tums, phone chargers, and tampons. Not to mention dust and detritus from old snacks, pens (working and not), torn candy wrappers, crumpled receipts, broken sunglasses, and a greasy change purse leaking useless pennies.

Most mothers have a purse full of stuff for their children, or at least something in their possession that indicates they have children. The only sign in here that I'm a parent at all are two free lollipops from the drive-thru window at the bank, wallet-sized school photos crammed into the deepest recesses of my wallet, and "art" that I greeted with oohs and ahhs of "Oh my GOSH honey, that's BEAUTIFUL!," before surreptitiously shoving it into the gaping maw of my shit hole of a purse.

So yeah, my purse is a shit hole. Just like my car, house, and everything else that acts as a landfill for the ceaseless torrent of shit in my life. The only thing that's not a shit hole is my office, and that's only because it can't be. After all, if my office was a shit hole, I might get fired. And then I wouldn't have the money to buy the shit that makes every other vacant space I encounter a complete, total, and unmitigated shit hole.




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