When the old Dooce got her car broken into a few weeks ago, I read the hundreds and hundreds of comments from people sharing their own stories about how their cars got broken into, and my first thought was "wow, that's nice, I bet it makes you feel better to commiserate and know that the same thing has happened to other people too." My second thought was "hot damn, a lot of people sure have had their cars broken into. These odds don't look very good."
Well, knock me down with a feather and make me a professor of statistics, because as of this morning, I have joined the masses. Some fine upstanding citizen of San Francisco went up and down my street last night, smashing car windows, reaching his hand in to undo the door locks, and climbing in to help himself to all the grubby nickels and half-empty packs of gum and two-year-old mix CDs people leave in their cars---you know, the really good stuff.
Sean came in to break the news to me this morning, and he said "well, at least they were considerate; they only broke the small triangular window on the passenger side, rather than the big one." And because I am now such a veteran of car break-ins---honestly, I learned more from the comments on Dooce than during my entire time in university, not that they taught us how to break into cars or anything (well, alright then, only cars that had first-edition copies of Leaves of Grass sitting on the back seat, and only so we could examine the correct pentameter of the rhyme)---I had to break his sweet little bubble by telling him that, no matter how we sensitive San Francisco types like to think the best of people, car thieves only break that triangular window because it's quieter and calls less attention to their crime.
Anyway, I feel angry and violated and really sort of grossed out that someone was going through all my stuff, even if my stuff is only a few pens, a pair of cheap sunglasses, and a cooler. I'm livid that someone would deliberately destroy something that wasn't theirs, would see my perfectly innocuous, inoffensive little car---which I'm still making payments on, by the way, and which I pay a fortune insuring every month, THOUGH RARELY DRIVE---and decide to ruin it for me, just in case I happened to have a buck in there that they could exchange for some crack.
Worst of all, I just feel so powerless. My car's sitting out there now with a dorky little piece of cardboard over the smashed window---the vehicular equivalent of having a piece of scotch tape over the bridge of your glasses to hold them together---and not only does having a piece of cardboard over the window make me look like the sort of person who thinks he's being fancy when he shops at the Wal-Mart rather than the Dollar Store, but it also leaves the car wide open to any other third-rate criminals who might want to have a poke around inside while I wait for the car repair shop man to celebrate the Fourth of July.
Justice! I want justice! But what can I do? Well, nothing, really. The angry person raging at my core is so incensed that she wants to march out there right now and put a sign on the window that just says (Sean's mom, please cover your ears) FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCKERS. Because that should show them, wouldn't it? Yeah! A really angry sign.