THE CHALLENGE is to find a backpack that is snazzy enough or something enough …that i’ll feel happy taking around with me like a limb sprouting out of my back. THE CHALLENGE in this challenge is to choose a backpack that does not indicate (or, at least, reveal the true nature of my psyche,) high levels of douche-iness. (I think saying the word “douche-iness” might indicate high levels of douche-iness, but that’s just a theory, or, if you will, what they call a Guestimate) (WHO IS THEY!!!!!!!) (this joke is pretty old)
I’m pretty sure all those crazy sleek athletic gear (inspired) primary color backpacks are not my thing because my thing is not looking like an asshole who spent a million years and dollars choosing a backpack (EVEN IF I DID, It is not my thing to look like I did).
WHY THE CHALLENGE? my back and neck muscles are clusterfuck city. Being alive gives me whiplash. Sleeping gives me whiplash. Walking 2 hours a day to and from work sure gives me some whiplash. Sex gives me whiplash! EVERYTHING HURTS.
Why not diminish the pain? BACKPACK solution. but the question is,
WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN LIKE AND LOVE? because I like my sketchers but I love my prada backpack?
I wish somebody would go wrestle a crocodile, gut it, make its guts into nylons or designer condoms, then strap some strappy straps to the once living crocodile husk…then add some TOTALLY COOL HARDWARE and
I am a maestrobackpacker, KING OF BACKPACK CITY.
in other, other news: POETS CAN’T THROW EVENTS OR MANAGE PEOPLE OR SHOW THEIR GRATITUDE FOR FREE LABOR. and DID I MENTION, they’re shitty organizers? It is truly a sad thing I don’t have all the power because I am good at both of those things and I like poetry… Seriously, volunteering for poetry events makes me want to gut those romantical bastards who pretend to throw events in the vein of poetry, art and music and the rest of that shindig.
Seriously, NAMING NO NAMES, these people were supposed to show up at 10am to set up their event, but they showed up at 4:30pm. I showed up at 2:30pm as specified via email. Took off work to do so. I won’t go into details, naming no names, but who is 7 HOURS LATE TO THEIR OWN PARTY? thrown in a goddamn alley because that’s what poets do. throw poetry themed carnivals in random alleys that they are late to.
That concludes this Friday’s pointless rant. TGIF. hang loose.
*note, I am too insecure about my intellect not to hyperlink to the crux of the joke I cracked, et voila!