S.O.S. : A Purse's Plea

I'm tired of being treated like a second class accessory. What would you do without me? I stretch out my insides to accommodate the contents of your life. I open myself up to crumbs, spilled green tea, makeup residue, balled up receipts, leaking lip gloss and the sharp pains of car keys. Your friends gawk at my outer beauty and rub me; okay that part feels good. I have a constant headache from all of the opening and closing. Despite all of the suffering I endure to make sure you look fly, you have the unmitigated gall to put me on the floor. No offense to shoes, but that is where they belong.

Accessories like myself are not used to such depths. We prefer being higher up. I'd flip my hair if I had some. So here I am on the floor looking up when I'm used to looking down. It’s cold down here. My feet, if I had feet, are getting contaminated with dirt, grime, bacteria you name it. I'm just not fit for upper dwelling anymore until I'm properly cleansed, which you won't do. The master that I have served so well is dancing around me. The shoes are laughing at me. I would have been much better off in the display case with light tissue paper stuffing, staring out at the wonders of the department store. I would still have my manufactured figure. I'd be a spectacle of leather and hardware perfection.
But alas, tis not so. I'm down here where feet should be. Where dogs walk and kids drop ice cream. If I could only use this penny I've been holding onto for weeks to make a wish, it would be that somehow my last act of despair reaches Baglady's website. May the Purse gods hear my plea.


Signed,

A Purse Sitting on the Floor




Dear PSOTF,

I hear you the readers hear you and we will get this message to your unworthy master!


BG