I finally bought the man-purse, dammit. Yes, after over a week and a half of bag-related stress, I have finally chosen a man-purse. And I am happy. I am one happy, bag-carrying motherfucker.


I think you should know what I went through. During the last ten days or so, I made three trips to Sports Chalet, one trip to Big Five Sporting Goods, one trip to the luggage store downtown, and over five hours online looking for a goddamn bag. Jesus, I had an easier time deciding on a tattoo!

Maybe it’s a commitment thing. Maybe it’s a pickiness thing. I’m almost sure it has something to do with women. Huh? Yeah. You heard me.

I’m picky as hell when it comes to women. And I think that sometimes my pickiness gets in the way. So maybe I was trying to divert my pickiness energy elsewhere, in order to be less picky with women. Follow me so far? Good, cuz I’m confused.

Picking a bag should be simple, and not some freaking ordeal. I just wanted a bag that looked good, was strong, elegant but not too feminine, wasn’t stupid, would last many years, would be there for me when the apocalypse happened, and looks sexy wearing a vinyl catsuit.

Okay, that’s the pon farr talking.

Why did it take almost two freakin weeks? Because I’m a picky mothertrucker. Picky with women, picky with backpacks.

OK, enought with the bag. On to another subject...the woman with the orange sweater…

I kinda want to ask her out. I think it would be totally out of the blue, me asking her, because we really didn’t talk that much. But heck, she’s cute and the next time I see her again will be February. I mean, what’s the harm in asking, right? And February is three months away. I mean, the way things are going now, the apocalypse COULD happen in three months. And what if it did? If the world cracked open and I was being sucked into the earth’s molten core, I would hate my last thoughts to be “Man, I should have asked her out.”

In fact, I think everyone should do that. Just for fun, everyone should imagine that tomorrow the earth is going to open up and swallow you into a red hot fiery death. Fun, right? OK, I’m sure the first thought would be “where’s the fire extinguisher” or “are my boxers lined with asbestos” or something along those lines. But if any of those thoughts are “why didn’t I ask so-and-so out,” then I suggest you stop imagining the world’s end and ask that person out.

Okay, it doesn’t mean that I’m gonna ask her out, but it’s a fun exercise.

Man, I love it when women walk around in their underwear.

Huh?
It's the pon farr.