if my backpack were my child, i would be a horrible father. i pierce it with buttons and saftey pins. i force it to carry my books and belongings. and as soon as i get home i throw it on the floor and ignore it until the following day. then i name him backpack. simple like the punk rock van minus the fancy adjectives.
one chilly evening, backpack and i took a ride in a friend's car. i left backpack in the car as i went to sing some songs and enjoy some fellowship. backpack and i sat in seperate seats on the car ride home. in my rush to get from the car to my apartment in the quickest time to avoid the bitter chill, tragedy struck. i had forgotten backpack in the backseat. similar to kevin's mom on home alone, it eventually hit me and my heart pounded. well, perhaps that is an exaggeration, but i still alerted my friend.
this story ends well. the following night my friend escorted backpack home. backpack gave my back a warm embrace. we returned to my room, and i threw backpack on the floor. but not before leaning in close to backpack and gently saying, "that'll do backpack, that'll do."