Things in my bag

Things in the slouchy, black satchel from Calvin Klein I’ve carried around since high school:

My laptop, a gray thing, sleek, with a keyboard that punches nicely when I’m hammering away at a late-night thought. It’s covered in paint stains, scratchy from pen marks, bits of cat fur clinging to the USB ports.

Two or six books, depending on when I last purged my bag. I’m currently carrying around my tattered copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road, The Hours by Michael Cunningham, several pieces from the Penguin Little Black Classics collection, and Nausea by Sartre that I simply can’t get past page four.

My trusty stick of Glossier’s Ultra-lipstick, in the deep red shade, Ember, that matches my skin wonderfully. It works as eyeshadow too, giving me that haunted, bruised look.

An eyeliner pencil, worn down to the very stub, but doing its best to hang in there.

A tube of lip balm that’s still in its package.

A bunch of Hershey’s kisses, all wrapped in their silver tinfoil, stuck to the bottom of the bag like tiny little hitchhikers. I always forget they’re in there, shoved underneath piles of papers and books, but they serve a purpose, a part in one of my favorite running gags. If I ever see a cute guy, I’ll go up to him and say, “do you want a kiss?” and then pull out a Hershey and hand it to him. I’ve never actually tried it, but I’ll guarantee it works.

Pieces of notepaper with scribbled drawings, notes for myself, a picture of the demon staring at me between ceiling tiles, a to-do list with nothing crossed off, a caricature of my friend from when we were bored on the train, two knock-knock jokes, a Sharpied self-portrait where I’m missing my eyes, bits of napkin with tic-tac-toe games on them.

A receipt from Goodwill, folded into a very awkward paper plane.

An ink pen, missing its cap, whose tip keeps bleeding out onto my books and paper and laptop, two mechanical pencils, both red, both with burnt out erasers, a thick Sharpie, and some crayons from those little sets you get at kid-friendly restaurants.

Two lighters, one plain black one from some gas station in Connecticut, the other a matte silver one, wide and thin, that says ‘IF YOU WANT TO FUCK, SMILE WHEN YOU GIVE THIS LIGHTER BACK” engraved into the metal in all caps.

A pair of cat-eye sunglasses that look best with a really dark red lipstick smile, or pushed up on my forehead, to hold my unwanted bangs in place. I got them from a random Macy’s somewhere in the New England area a few years ago. On sale for sixty dollars.

A penny, two dimes, and a quarter.

An Earl Gray teabag without its wrapper.

A travel-size version of my favorite perfume, Tom Ford’s Tobacco Vanille, in its tiny but heavy black bottle with the stiff cap.

My matching black wallet, with too many credit cards, IDs, insurance badges, laundry tokens, and library memberships.

Several pairs of silver earrings, with broken clasps, no matching partners, sticky with ancient gum wrappers.

Ancient gum wrappers.

A tiny red notebook, pages completely empty, but waiting patiently.

A mint tin with spare medication tablets in it.

House key.

White earbuds in their little round case.

Two or three black hair-ties.

A regular size Tampon, that’s been there probably since high school.

A condom, that’s been there probably since high school.

A Polaroid of me and the only two other coworkers my age, at the Christmas party two years ago. It was my first and last Christmas party at that company. The theme was something about glitter, so I wore a black two-piece gown with rhinestones I sewed on myself. Both my coworkers are wearing shiny suits, and we have funky sunglasses on. It’s a set of four shots, of us holding champagne glasses, grinning, blissfully unaware of the mass layoffs that will be coming in a few months.

Phone charger.