To the Purse Pilferer
“From the Diary of a Madwoman: Excerpt #63,925”
(i.e. actual excerpts from my diary)
To the godless heathen that broke into my mom’s car—in the CHURCH parking lot, nonetheless—you can go to hell.
Oh the irony, right? Some nimrod broke into my mom’s car and stole her purse while she was at church. Wallet, cash, countless credit cards, checkbook, driver’s license, work badge, work keys, cellphone, everything—gone.
Now the culprit knows where she lives, where she works, where she shops, how many kids she has, the number of times she blinks every minute, and what color pajamas she wears to bed. Okay, so maybe not the last two. But she says it feels like a big part of her life and identity is in that purse.
How do such small, seemingly insignificant objects—plastic cards, pictures, cellphones—comprise a large part of our identities? It’s funny how such big pieces of our lives are strewn about in the little devices and cards we carry with us in our purses, wallets, and pockets. I understand then why people feel so personally violated when they’ve been victims of theft.
Maybe even more ironic than the situation is my reaction to it. It wasn’t even my car that got broken into, but I’m still furious. As a Catholic I’m supposed to turn the other cheek, right? To forgive and forget? Pffffft, maybe that’ll come later. Right now instead of “forgive and forget” I want to “remember and be spiteful about it.”
Even the priest was flabbergasted. He came out of the church wondering why there was a “Crime Scene” police patrol car on his parking lot. My mom told him what happened.
“I’m sorry, Father,” she said. “I guess we’re just going to have to pray for whoever did this.”
The priest glowered and shook his head. “Oh no, my dear. It’s gonna take A LOT MORE than prayer to fix this mess and the criminal who did it.”
I wish the douchebag-of-a-culprit had been as stupid as this guy. I’m going to get my mom windows like that.
