It was a Friday. I had just gone to the gym and done a little shopping afterwards. By the time we came home, Ivy had already fallen asleep. Instead of making two trips like a sensible person, I opted to carry every damn bag up three flights of stairs in addition to a sleeping V in my arms like a human pack mule. Shopping bags, gym bag, work bag, bag bag- I had it all. Needless to say, I practically collapsed at my door as I set a few bags down to unlock our door. I went inside, business as usual- even forgetting to close and lock the door behind me, and got my little ready for bed. A sleepy pajama change and a begrudging trip to the bathroom to brush teeth and Ivy was fast asleep. Except that it wasn’t because it wasn’t until the next day that I had realized something was missing.
Someone had taken my work bag from outside my door- which, mind you, is on the third floor of a locked-entry building. My work computer, my portfolio, my planner, my sunglasses- you name it, and it was inside my bag. My beautiful J.Crew black, laser-cut, leather bag. And while all of those things are desperately important, the most important thing in that bag only cost 4 dollars. My journal. My most intimate thoughts and fears and pleasures and treasures were now in some scumbag’s clutches and at any moment he or she could open the pages of my heart and let my soul bleed off the pages without a stitch of remorse.
It got me thinking. Thinking about the value I place on things. Over the course of the night I had lost well over $1,500 worth of things, but the possession that had me losing sleep was my intellectual property. Sure, I felt violated beyond belief, but I was more so upset that I could never get that journal back (unless by the grace of god, that sexy police man from the fifth precinct heroically finds my things- it could happen). I could never finger the pages I had poured myself onto, or look back years later at how silly 25-year-old me was. Because I fully assume I will think 25-year-old me was silly and, damnit, I’d like tangible proof.
The point is- I absolutely miss my computer and I thought for a minute there my career was over, I miss that bag- it was a good, good bag, and I miss my sunglasses. No for real, I miss my sunglasses. But those are just things. And in due time, I’ll be able to afford a new bag and maybe even some new sunnies- but those things are replaceable. My intimate thoughts are not, which is where the real wealth lies. To the asshole who stole my shit: ENJOY IT. I really hope you do. I’d hate for you to have messed with me so fully, only to receive a headache in return. Someday when I’m a famous writer, I give you permission to sell my journal on ebay. Only so I can buy it back and then fuck with your feedback rating (0% because you’re a sick bastard, but shipping was fast!). Clowns like you can learn from journals like mine; buckle up before you turn the page.