Let's play a game!
What's in my bag RIGHT NOW?
This is the funnest.

Okay ... in the front pocket, we have objects including but not limited to:

* The name and phone number of an illegal worker who was standing outside the U-Haul rental center when I moved a few weeks ago, who basically stormed me as I walked up, and offered to help me move for $15 an hour. I took down his number because (a) I considered calling him, and (b) you try looking into the eyes of 5'2" Tarsicio Hernandez and telling him no, you're not interested in his services and he should go back to rushing cars as they drive into the U-Haul parking lot if he wants to earn any money today.

(Funny thing: as I was driving my truck out of the lot, one of the U-Haul guys warned me, "See those guys outside? Well, be careful, because they will stop you and try to get you to hire them. STAY AWAY. They're all drunk, and on drugs."

I invite you to say that out loud: "They're all drunk, and on drugs."

I laughed in his face and drove away.)

* Note cards for a presentation I gave yesterday, on art therapy methods to help caregivers/therapists avoid burning out.

* Color-coded notebooks for a presentation I did on Tuesday, which I won't say went horribly, but I will say constituted the longest, most excruciating 30 minutes of my academic life. Meaning, in terms of uncomfortable school moments, Tuesday's rigamorole trumps the Shakespeare presentation I delivered during my last year in college, the morning after my 22nd birthday, while I was nursing a monstrous hangover. Luckily, in the latter situation, my professor was not only my mentor who loved me, but also an alcoholic who seemed to sympathize with my efforts to function instead of shoving my head into a bucket of ice water. In the former situation, I learned a lot from my mistakes, so I'm actually pretty happy with the outcome.

* DVD of me delivering Tuesday's presentation. I'd rather pluck out my eyes and use them as cocktail olives than watch that motherfucker, but I have to write a paper on it. God dammit.

* Green tea bags, take-out menus, gum, receipts.

* The lyrics for a silly rap I wrote in three to five minutes yesterday, during a short exercise led by my friend the hip-hop hippie. Lyrics include, "I wanna be a heathen/ and celebrate the freedom / to fart on the weekend." Writing that thing was so much fun, I started shaking. I was overcome by the spirit of hip-hop! The spirit of hip-hop subsequently felt very uncomfortable, said "What the hell'm I doing in the body of this lame white girl?", and left. Yo.

* Oh, god! I’ve been looking for this! It’s my wee tin of lip balm made by Pussy Pucker Pots. Company Slogan: "For the tastiest lips north of the hips!" Flavor: Lemon Labia. I wanted Vanilla Vulva, but the friend who hooked me up with the sample was all out.

She was all out of vulva. She was so lost without it.
She felt really bad that she had no va-niiiiil-la,
She was all out of vulva. Just lemon for my lips.
It makes me as mad as a Hun named A-til-laaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Pardon me. The moment just screamed for a song parody. Because when one spends time properly worshipping at the altar of the vulva, it is important to occasionally emerge to replenish one’s AIR SUPPLY!

Get it? Get it?

I hate myself.

* Another, far less interesting, lip balm.

* 2 pens, 1 black marker
* One orphaned earring, made by a burnt out hippie in Berkeley who asked me to sing him some Zappa.
* My keys! They’re sort of persnickety, honestly. It’s one of those you-have-to-pull-on-the-door-while-slowly-jiggling-the-key-towards-you-until-it-fully-fits-in-the-appropriate-grooves situations. Struggling with that thing in the dark makes me sympathize with men trying to bring women to orgasm, when they bother, because our parts differ from lady to lady, and are mostly invisible unless you get super close up. Sorry, guys. Thanks for having prominent schlongs.

The contents of the right outside pocket include but are not limited to:

* My wallet.
* My cell phone.
* A Play Doh container holding a figurine, which I sculpted yesterday, of a little man wearing a beret.

Sorry it's so huge. I don't know how to shrink stuff on a Mac, and now my page is superhorizontal.

See? He's a bit creepy there, lookin' like a jarred fetus desperately reaching for help. And wearing a beret. In the background, you see the very entry I'm writing right now! Ooh, how meta. Welcome to the rabbit hole.

The contents of the left outside pocket include but are not limited to:

* More fucking lip balm. What the hell?
* What the fuck is all this shit?
* Directions from my old house to the Oakland airport, written for when I flew to Honolulu in January. JANUARY.
* My baggage tags from December. I weep for myself.
* Ooh! A quarter.

The contents of the bag’s main cavity includes but is not limited to:

* "Cunt" by Inga Muscio, which I'm reading for the second time. Huh. This entry is making me sound like a total lesbian. Oh, well. Hi!
* Overstuffed school notebook.
* The plug for my laptop.
* Blah, more random crap.

That wasn't nearly as interesting as it usually is. I'll stop now, because I can tell I'm making some of you anxious.

Sometimes it makes me sad that I so rarely take photographs. Maybe if I were to start, I'd be less likely to latch onto random story-tied artifacts with which to chronicle my life.

~ Last Five Entries ~

Ragamuffin Chic - 08.11.06

CAMEL NOISES OF DEEP LONGING.
PROBABLY SOUNDS LIKE, "GRAAAAWWWW! GRAAAWWWWW!" THANKS. - 07.11.06

Outer Richmond House - 07.04.06

My Sister's Wedding - 06.27.06

Meltdown? Who knows? - 05.09.06

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BUY JEN'S BOOK! BUY IT! DO IT!

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BUY DEAN'S BOOK, TOO! YOU KNOW YOU WANNA! SERIOUSLY.

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