Here’s the thing about my purse: there is not just one thing.

I could not sooner pull one item out of there then I could yank a rabbit out my ass. Stuff gets stuck together: socks intermingle with soy sauce packets, paperclips cling to handmade business cards by men (man) who ask(s) me out, and Starbuck’s iTunes cards glom onto bank statements. In my handbag, there exists a disturbing, but necessary purse ecosystem of old goody bag trinkets, emergency underwear, and black hair clumps that defies nature.

I really wanted to do this PROMPT, but it was just impossible. The second I reached into my carpet bag, 100 purse worms clamored for my attention and despite my best intentions, I still came away with an Ariel hairpiece pasted to a brush, whose bristles speared an old rosary my mom held when she passed away.

And that I clutch when I fly on a plane and hope not to die.

Still, I thought it best if I just name a few things in my purse, so I’m not a complete suck butt at my own PROMPT.

Here you have it:

— A Larabar, which I recently read is chock-full of good stuff like minerals and poop-encouragers.

I’m still waiting for it to taste less like yeast infection.

–Enigmatic scribblings on the back on Toots’ immunization card with mysterious phrases like, “Int. Services,” and “Metuna Flix.”

Could these be instructions for my Larabar?

–Metrocard from New York.

I regret to say I have no explanation for that one.

–Keys to the eternal city of Nowhereville.

–A spider cocktail ring for all those goth raves I have so much energy for these days.

–A piece of petrified sushi.

I think it’s rainbow roll.

It inexplicably makes me happy, so I leave it alone. There’s so few inexplicable happy-makers these days, other than this blog, my husband and children.

–Many, many other inexplics, including but not limited to: an Elmo whistle, a crushed penny, more hair, possibly more petrified sushi, either that or extremely green boogers, plastic wrappers, Mr. Fuzzy McLinty Pants, and a Sea World pass (possibly the most normal thing I own).

And most disconcerting of all – I don’t know if this will surprise you or not – but none of this is in the least bit exaggerated for comic effect.

(Is that disconcerting or just plain sad?)

Let’s just go with eccentric, whaddya say?

I really rely on you people to make me feel less like someone who, if left to her own devices, and in a low blood sugar moment, might actually suck on that rigor mortised sushi like it was a watermelon Jolly Rancher.