WORST #18: Your Purse Is Not A Trashcan

So a new week has started, and so has my need to tackle the The List Of Perfectly Responsible Things To Do That Will Ruin Summer. The title for that is far too long, and I'm far too lazy to keep typing it, so we're going to use the first letter of some of the words to shorten it to 'WORST'. Yes, I realize the letters don't appear in that order, but it's my list, and I'm doing it anyway.

As most of you figment ladies out there know (and any of you gentlemen, if you happen to carry handbags...and it's perfectly alright if you do...honest) purses are like voids, gigantic black holes whos gravitational pull attract all sorts of bizarre and unexplainable junk to its depths. Everything eventually ends up in the bottom of your purse, so it's important to clean it out every millennia or so.

Today I finished #18 on my list: cleaning out my purse. Yes, it was a simple task, and yes, in reality it probably shouldn't merit a posting on my blog, but I'm hard up for posting material here, so play along.

After being smugly proud of myself at how much junk I really did manage to cram in there, I became confused about the type of stuff I found in my purse. Broken Mardi Gras beads, an empty CD-R case, stamps torn off an envelope, an eraser shaped like a dog, a plastic fork, a metal lid to lord knows what, a baby sock...what are the reasonings behind these items, and who put them there? I surely didn't. I'm highly confused and confounded. I don't even own a baby.

Oddities tossed away (or kept for questioning others), I now have a lovely clean purse that closes with no problems and has absolutely no junk, trash, garbage, or sticky smelly items in it. It's almost as good as having fresh clean sheets on my bed.


Savvy Banany,
You hold my life in your car,
Give back my planner.

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