It’s not that I’m not writing. It’s that I hate everything I write. No matter where I start, the efforts turn into whiny, self-indulgent, depressed meanderings sweetened with a touch of nihilism.
It may be what I feel but it’s also boring.
Luckily, I have a new emotion: rage.
My parents’ home was broken into two days ago. They were robbed.
They weren’t home. I’m grateful for this. They’re older and that could have gone badly. Their dog was in but I’m happy to report that Rufus, a friendly little cairn terrier was not harmed by the burglars he also didn’t stop.
They took a lot. It’s all stuff of course so what does it matter? Comforting lies because it does matter. It is just stuff and we are just temporary but we attach to our things.
My mom is alone in the world. She has us, but no extended family. My dad has brothers and cousins. My mother is the last of her line.
They took her Chromebook and a camera. They took my dad’s iPad. They took all of my mother’s needles and insulin and medication and an evil part of me hopes they try for a low-blood-sugar high.
They also stole her memories.
They took the bracelet her grandmother gave her for her baptism seventy-years ago. I thin gold thing, a child’s bracelet. Worth nothing in terms of resale. The value is in the memory.
Most of what they took is like that. The electronics, who cares? The medications? Burn in hell. But the memory stuff? What is wrong with people?
They weren’t overly destructive. I chalk this up less to charitable impulse and more to my parents returning home after only an hour.
But they were small and nasty and horrible and have caused serious distress and pain.
I should hope for justice. I should try and understand the who and the why of the criminals. I should focus on being grateful. I should look at societal responsibility and failure.
I probably will hit all these markers at some point. Currently, however, I’m hoping for a raging case of karma with a side order of extra-vindictive.