Stolen bag, makes me sad. Broken window, costs me money. It’s the bag, I’ll miss more.
Dear sir or madam,
I hope you enjoy the bag you took, the skanky knee pads are on the house. Please give them a good home, preferably wrestling (or cleaning […we’ll stay away from the obvious innuendo]).
Me [and my brother]
It’s Lent and we’re supposed to do with less; but I’m a hoarder. When something’s mine, it’s a part of me. If you lend me a pen, I won’t keep it; but if I lend you one, please return it. When you don’t, part of me dies.
Sure, this was a nice messenger bag. Ideal for carrying books, a tablet, and a laptop. Yes, it had a Defiance logo on it (the second season is about to start). But that day, it just had old knee pads in it.
So, if you see my bag wandering the streets, I hope it’s found a good home (and not a dumpster). I hope it’s carrying books for someone who really needed a bag. Maybe it also carries a
stolen laptop bought with stolen credit cards.
While I could try and see if the company who produced it would send me a new one (doubtful), it wouldn’t be the same. This one was mine. It carries with it a piece of my soul (like Voldemort’s diary).
You might say, “What’s all the fuss? It was just a bag.” Yeah, but it was my bag. A really nice one…if you’re nerdy. You could also say, “Hey man, it’s just a thing. You’d shouldn’t get so attached to things.” They aren’t things to me. My things become little people to me. We go on adventures together, they have adventures when I’m not around [basically, it’s like Toy Story, but with everything, not just toys (whoa, now we’re getting into some weird territory)].
Okay, so “mine” might be a stretch, I let my brother use it, though I bought it…you could say it was his, but you get the point [hey, I’m a pack rat, logic
isn’t necessary need not apply].
rant note here (where no one will read it) does no good. Well, it does me.
I’ll leave you with a limerick while I break my Lenten fast from chocolate (isn’t it everyone’s comfort food?).
There once was a bag at Gratiot and MacDougal
Who didn’t know Detroit had a MacDougal.
While its owner worked and toiled
Someone else boiled
With envy for this bag.
He shattered a window
But, little did he know
Inside he’d only find old pads.
Too bad, too,
I wish they knew
Then I might still have my bag.