Excess Baggage

I love bags.  I never go out without some sort of bag perched happily on my shoulder, moving along with me as I brave the cruel, cruel world.

I love my bags weird, huge, floppy, and hobo-ish.  I don't like 'em rigid and boxy and frou-frou-ish.   There's just something special about a bag that's weird enough it's bordering on one of a kind, huge enough to fit any of your friends in and make 'em feel like they're traveling first class and floppy enough that it can also serve as an emergency security blanket for those unexpectedly depressing moments.

My favorite kind of bag is the hobo bag.  Whenever I walk past a store and spot a hobo bag, I stand transfixed for a few minutes, daydreaming about the many wonderful adventures I can go on if only I had one.  And if I have enough money, you can bet your ass I'mma take that bag home with me and love it, and hug it and call it MINE.

To date, I have about 18 bags and I'm nowhere near finished hoarding more.