Did I ever tell you peeps about the Mystery of the Handbags? I don’t think I did.
Last December, someone left a plastic grocery bags of small gothy handbags hanging from my doorknob. No note, no one sent me a text or email, just a bag of gothy handbags. I asked my friends, and none of them had any idea who the mystery purse elf was.
(A few of them suggested that my Goth Force Field was so strong at this point, gothy accessories just materialized out of thin air for me. If that’s the case, mysterious bags of Fluevogs can start appearing on my porch ANY DAY NOW.)
Why did I remember this story now? Because I went upstairs to the Storage Room o’ Doom to check the size of a different handbag, in the hopes that it would fit my absolute essentials, but be small enough that I wouldn’t be tempted to pack in extra things Just In Case. And there, sitting on the Anne Rice shelf of the upstairs bookcase, one of the Mystery Handbags. Which I had forgotten about, and certainly hadn’t left on the Anne Rice shelf. It turns out that Mystery Handbag is the sort of size I was looking for.
My life is weird, and frequently runs on Serendipity Overdrive.
Let us again pretend that life is a solid substance, shaped like a globe, which we turn about in our fingers. Let us pretend that we can make out a plain and logical story, so that when one matter is despatched — love for instance — we go on, in an orderly manner, to the next.