I am currently a grown ass woman living her life out of a fanny pack. The livestream inventory of said fanny pack:
- One travel toothbrush and one tiny tube of toothpaste, which is actually the only toothpaste in my whole life right now because I've forgotten what a grocery store looks like, and how to utilize it. But the 7-11 near work sells travel kits, and sometimes… Ya know?
- Several pairs of daily disposal contact lenses just in case I get stranded somewhere for several days with a pair in my eyeballs, while my glasses loaf about uselessly on the other side of the city.
- One vial of peppermint essential oil beadlets for stomach upset caused both by extravagant living and anxiety.
- Several crumpled receipts from god knows what.
- One very melted Old Spice Pure Sport deodorant stick, which is oozing viscously all over my wallet, keys, toothbrush, and peppermint beads. The scent fumes may also be giving everyone a headache while we stand here in line waiting to order our cheeseburgers.
- Honestly, I don't even know what else. I was going to actually take inventory but I can't bear the thought of easing my fingers into that hot, sticky, fragrant hand trap. Like, have you ever seen the inside of a kangaroo’s pouch? I can guarantee the inside of this fanny pack feels exactly the way that looks. I'm not about that life.
“Why”, you might ask, “are you living out of a fanny pack when you have a perfectly reasonable bedroom situation going on?” “Well”, I might tell you, “because in less than two weeks I'll be unemployed, homeless, and in a brand new city with nothing more than the clothes on my back, Murphy the cat, and whatever else I can artfully cram into my very, very small Carrrl.” Nobody ever accused me of having healthy coping mechanisms. But how about instead of an insightful dialogue re: life, and how big/scary/frantic/amazing it can be… Let's just talk about Burger Week? For those of you existing in a sad, burgerless alternate reality: let me introduce you to Portland. Every year the maniacal geniuses that invented artisanal toast and excuses to overindulge come together to make heaven a place on earth (what up, Belinda Carlisle). This year 35 bars have concocted 35 unique and limited-time burgers to tickle Portland’s tastebuds. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to sample each one. To-date I've been woefully unsuccessful in my burger week endeavors. My previous record was a mere three burgers over the course of an entire week. I blamed this on my work schedule, or my budget, or a pretty strong desire to be able to look at myself in a mirror sans meat sweats. Now that I've let myself go in every imaginable way, there are no holds barred. Sitting at this bar by myself at 7:12 on a Thursday night, I just put away burger number four: the Dirty Bangkok. The venue (Home, A Bar) was kind enough to offer a burger, beer, and bourbon shot deal for a mere $10. Is that an entire hour of desk-jockeying (after taxes)? Yes. Do I GAF? Not right now. Probably I will just a little bit in the morning. But a cheeseburger with crispy bacon and tangy peanut sauce over a Thai-inspired slaw and pickled carrots, you guyssssss. Remember that whole impending unemployed/homeless/living on the government’s dollar situation? Right now I have home, and friends, and an Amazon Rewards Visa card that is so far from maxed it's practically laughable. Will I have to wake up from this dream soon? Absolutely. Please don't remind me. But for now? Pass the ginger aioli and keep the ciders flowing so maybe my fanny pack won’t be the only damp, smelly mess at this bar. I'm here front-loading calories like a smart Survivor contestant, knowing just how small poverty can make me feel. T-minus: less time than any reasonable human requires to prepare for the next phase of their life. All my love, you weirdos.
P.S. This was the first post fully composed on my trusty iPhone, Zynegawf. Hats off to you, tippytapping fingertips.