To the Asshole(s) Who Broke into my car in the parking garage at work (a variation on the letter written to the asshole(s) who broke into my car a few months ago AND the asshole(s) who broke into my garage, also a few months ago),
Hi. Crystal here, which you probably already know since you shuffled through my glove box and saw my insurance information. Guess you know where I live, too, huh? Here’s a tip, dickhead – the garage has already been shuffled through, so there’s little point in bothering.
What was it about my CD collection that didn’t fit your tastes? I have a pretty wide variety of music in there – everything from new Beck to old Who to also old Cat Stevens (is there any other kind?), some mix CDs I made (which are pretty good, if I do say so myself), the last NIN album and The The doing Hank Williams. That last one is some good shit. But none of that was good enough for you to steal? I even had a Warren Zevon album – in the jewel case – that you couldn’t pawn for a buck or two? Come on, give me something so that when I’m replacing the glove box you broke I can at least say, “Well, they DID steal the Warren Zevon.”
Thankfully I have learned the convertible owner’s lesson about keeping the doors unlocked – it only takes having to replace the top ONCE to get that drill – so you didn’t have to break a window or cut my top. Guess you thought since the glove box was locked that THAT was where the goodies were. How disappointed you must have been to find bullshit nostalgia in the form of CDs and a few various maps of Texas, Houston and Austin. Bummer, huh? See, I don’t keep anything in the car of value (other than the car itself, which I cannot remove from the car and take with me). I only lock the glove box out of some need to have control in my life and be able to lock SOMETHING, even if what I’m locking up is not a big deal.
But you have taught me that locking the glove box only leads to a broken glove box if a loser is intent enough on finding something, anything, to justify his/her low point of car thievery in a fucking parking garage. A parking garage, I might add, full of cars much MUCH nicer than mine.
So, anyway, I was heading home, pissed that my glove box no longer worked, when I faced a part of living in Houston that I really, really don’t like. Flooding. You know, when I’m at work, I’m not always watching the fucking weather channel. So I didn’t know I couldn’t just drive home to have the scotch that was calling my name. Two hours later, I finally got tired of inching forward and then pulling into random driveways to get out of the way of SUV drivers who were riding my ass and seemingly excited about the prospect of justifying owning such a monstrous vehicle by driving through high water. I left my recently-violated car five blocks from my house and walked home. Fuck it. And there it sits (hopefully).
On the journey home, I called my father to let him know that if I did indeed die from walking in a bad thunderstorm, under big trees and holding an umbrella with a metal handle, that I did so with full knowledge that I was risking my safety. I’ll be damned if I’ll go out like a punk, too stupid to know not to do that. I had to pee, and the scotch was a siren song, so I did it. Made it home safely, too, obviously.
So I sit at home, car-free, pondering how you must have felt after combing through my little two-seater and coming away with NOTHING. It makes me laugh, to think that you assumed that since I have a jobby-job downtown and drive a car that is not yet a hoop-dee that it was full of treasures. Nope. I’m getting by, just like most of the people with bullshit 9-6 jobs. Didn’t have a gun or money in the glove box. No bars of gold or vials of coke. Just a guide to the best places to see spring flowers in Texas. That last has meaning, but only to people with a soul. Sorry you missed out.