Woot® : One Day, One Deal™

Of all the masquerade balls in all the world, she had to walk into mine.

I told her when I left it was her choice. Me, or her skeleton choir. She cried and pulled at her red hair nervously and told me that without her, the boys would wither and die. “The boys,” she called them. I called them a bunch of screaming wussies but she would never hear one bad word against them. Said she loved me just as much, but I couldn’t handle them. So I walked out. Left her in tears and them screaming in agony as they tried to comfort her.

Now I’ve got a good life. I’m a Hollywood producer. Did that motorcycle movie with the flaming skull head guy, you know it? I never thought, but maybe that was a cry for help. I sure never forgot her. And now, I’m standing here like Jay Gatsby and she’s across the room with a hint of a smile, the boys posing tolerantly behind her. And I’m thinking I’m gonna make those same mistakes all over again.

That’s the funny thing about love. You never really find a cure. Just a period between relapses.

Carry this tote: to the biker bar. They’ll laugh, but inside they’ll be impressed with your confidence.

Don’t carry this tote: and think you’re learning anatomy. Those skeletons are very dramatic but they’re not actually complete. That guy on the side doesn’t even have an arm.

This tote tells the world: “Yeah, this hurt a lot less than a tattoo, but I can still carry it with me everywhere. So win/win, right?”