|Monday, August 12th, 2002|
11:25a - Love For 804
So! It has finally happened. Laugh if you must.
Last night, I was laying in my bed thinking, wow, I've been doing really well lately. No bouts of depression, nothing to really make me all that depressed. No suicidal thoughts, no catalysts. And then suddenly this weird feeling swept over me, like something was wrong. My stomach tied itself into a knot and my fingers started to tingle. I didn't like this at all because there have been weird, kind of psychic happenings as of late. Like Stefan and I parked at his house, and right when I got out of my car, I got a weird feeling in my stomach and thought, "Did I lock my keys in the car?" I checked my hand, and no, they were right there. But Stefan had. His keys were sitting right there in his car, just after I said this aloud to myself...
My father wakes me up this morning to tell me that we are finally going to Wal Mart to look at the DVD's 'cos I'm fiending for some new stuff. The only reason I haven't gone on my own is because I'm broke as a joke and have no motivation to get a job as yet.
He tells me he's leaving (It's around ten when he tells me this) and that he's dropping off my brother and his friend. He says he'll come back and we'll go to Wal Mart around 12. Fabulous! This means I don't have to rush around! I have two whole leisurely hours to get ready.
I figure, hey, the house is empty, I can shower and bump my favourite tunes with no consequence. So I go down to my car to get my new favourite CD...
I grab my keys and go to my car, and walk around to the driver's side. When I get there, I notice that my door looks slightly ajar. No big deal, I tell myself, taking a deep breath. My father probably had to get into it this morning. If I pull on it, I'm sure it will be locked, it just looks funny.
I pull on it, and it comes open. The door's unlocked, and all of my stuff is strewn all over the passenger's seat. My backpack, which was formerly in the backseat, lay limp and empty on the front passenger floor. Pennies, bobby pins, kandy beads, tapes, earrings, clips, the face to my stereo, and Vivarin tablets all over. The CD visor is down, and some of the CD's are pulled halfway out, but nothing is missing except the dimes that were sitting just below the gearshift.
I get so mad. I start muttering angry things to myself and cleaning up the mess. I'm a nice girl. I don't do mean things. True, there has been a wave of car robberies lately, but what the hell? Oh, and who had the bright idea that there would be money in my car? I figure, someone who was hella cracked out (and probably dirty, too, and they were sitting in my seat, EW!) got into my car looking for money and then gave up when they saw I only had two dimes and a bunch of other crap in there. They even popped the trunk, but nothing was missing from there either. Not my tripod, not my rollerskates, not my yearbook, nothing! I check the backseat. Both of my wigs are there, my clips, my cloves, my monkey, my green purse from the Rasputina show hasn't even been opened.
I knew this was coming. My dad goes outside and rolls the windows to my car down about 1/4 of the way if it's a hot day so that the dashboard won't crack in the heat. I leave them cracked. This is the difference between me and my father. This morning when I got up, strange feelings aside, and before I found my car in this state (and had to clean it up, mind you, GRR!) I thought to myself, "I wish Dad wouldn't leave my fucking windows down like that. Someone could stick their arms in and unlock it." No joke. Some crackhead, who was probably really thin and dying for fix, had gotten in there by sticking their grubby hands in and popping the lock.
And now, I am filled with rage. Every lowlife I see, I want to hit with my car. The winos and hookers that hang out in the park, I want to kill them. I want to spray them with Freon and mercury that's in our basement because my father does A/C work. I want them to pay! Because they're not honest people. They break the law. They tweak. And they steal. Really. You can never trust a junkie, and even more so, you can never, EVER trust a tweaker.
So yeah. My car was tampered with, and I think I knew it. Some dirty criminal bastard was rifling through and touching my girly stuff. And I'm pissed. My Tinkerbell backpack has dirty tweaker finger prints all over it.
Just another installment in my oh-so-fascinating life. Yeah, right.
current mood: infuriated
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