This purse looks completely harmless. Utterly defenseless and nothing but docile. However, looks can be deceiving. When melded with the shoulder belonging to someone such as myself, this unsuspecting and quite fashionable purse transforms into a weapon of minor destruction.
So far, I’ve knocked this handbag into approximately 582 cars over the course of three months. My inability to grasp the simple “large objects require more space” principle, has created a small-time terror threat to every bumper within a three-mile radius. I simply cannot manage to carry this purse anywhere without pummeling several unassuming vehicles.
As if bumpers weren’t bad enough, Rosemary’s purse has collected enough DNA to repopulate a small island. Genetic codes have been swiped from the following: old people, little people, smelly people, mean people, and kid people. My purse has without a doubt, knocked each subset of the American population a good one (from coast to coast, mind you). I could probably apologize and remedy the situation, but given the demonic nature of my carryall, I fear what it could do to me if it happened to detect any signs of weakness on my part. Read on…
However, this purse has finally seen it’s last act of terror. While perusing the local craft store (and maintaining a safe distance of three feet from the nearest shelf) my handbag somehow managed to knock down the largest acrylic box which featured edges sharper than a Ginsu knife, and took careful aim to direct it towards my leg. Arts & Crafts Time has officially turned into a bloodsport. I thought I could evade it’s sadistic nature, but this purse is obviously a bad seed.
After limping to the bathroom to sop up the trail of blood before it ran into my shoe, I came to the realization that I needed to exact my own revenge. Yet, I soon found out I overestimate my ability to connive. The best punishment I could come up with was to give it the ol’ stink eye during the ride home. This did nothing to the purse but it probably gave me premature wrinkles.
So for now, the purse is hanging in my closet, awaiting it’s next victim. It taunts me each time I open the door, laughing at my weakness, and celebrating the day I brought it home with a skip in my step.