Friends, I told you it would happen… eventually. I just didn’t think it would be so soon. Within two days of putting up all my lovingly crafted Halloween decorations and props, I got jacked. The thieves made of with my best homemade headstone, a 4ft tall one with the nondescript “R.I.P.” carved into it, as well as the $10 “skeleton” thing which was jutting from the earth at its foot. They also tried to steal last year’s crown jewel, the not-cheap-at-all to make “coffin popper.” In their efforts, they detached all the various air hoses and AC wiring to the coffin, and I’m assuming only left it when they realized it weighs well over 100lbs.
Let me just take this time to emphasize just how much I hate getting things stolen from me. For reasons (explained here in detail), being the victim of a pilferer evokes a deep-seeded feeling of violation in me. I get altogether furious and nervous as my brain starts instantly wishing I’d caught the sticky-fingered bastards in the act, I get put off thinking of these ill-willed punks slinking around my house touching my things and all right under my nose as I sleep. I curse the gonads these bandits must have to take the time to step onto my porch and unhook my air hoses, to trace wiring with their fingers to find a plug in the dark and unplug it (if only my extremely unsafe for outdoors 120V wiring would’ve shocked the dicks). I hate the brazenness I imagine them having, and a good bit of that hates stems from the fact that I know for a fact I once possessed the exact same brazenness when committing my teenage deeds.
In fact, this morning I found myself nearly simultaneously thinking, “What gives kids the idea that they can do this kinda thing?” and, “Oh… that’s right, I know exactly what gives them that idea…” Stupid me, getting karmic repayment for the evils of my own youth. And the worst part is, if I was the God of Paybacks sitting up on my cloud on high, stealing a tombstone would only be the tip of the iceberg for me. Sharaun suggested I make a list, like Earl, and start making right the transgressions of my past – and perhaps I’d be spared any more vandalism or theft. Yeah, I doubt it…
Anyway, as if I haven’t written enough about it now… I’m not going to lie, I wrote the preceding paragraphs in the early morning hours just after discovering I’d been jacked. Writing is my catharsis. I was so angry, even angrier at the thought of them actually making good on their attempts to liberate me of the coffin prop. Had I woken up to that missing, I think I may have cried – so much time and effort (not to mention money) went into it. Losing that coffin may have drained my Halloween spirit, I have so much pride wrapped up in those silly props… I’m not sure I’d even be motivated to finish this year’s… sick in my belly, sick in my belly…
Let’s move on though, I guy can only fester so long.
When I saw an article linked on MeFi the other day about “the death of cursive” (apparently, only 15% of kids wrote their 2006 SAT essays in cursive) and noticed it had a whopping 90 comments, I clicked to see what other people were saying. Before I read the comments, I took mental not of my own opinion: who cares, cursive is dumb anyway. Right then, turns out I wasn’t the only one who sees little need to defend cursive as an art. I was just talking about this the other day with friends, how I haven’t written in cursive since gradeshcool when I was actually learning to write in cursive. I print everything, even my signature is some flowing block print rather than script. Cursive… please… that’s what fonts are for.
Know who’s pretty? Girls.