Surprisingly, it is not all that hard to admit to others when I am wrong. I do have trouble admitting to myself when I am wrong. Yesterday was one of those days. It started like any other. My mood was relatively average which is great for me. I spent my morning working with dogs and then headed to the salon to try out some new products that just came in.
Being that I am a small business owner in my first year, I am poor. All of my money goes to my business minus all the money I spend on booze trying to forget about events like the one that followed.
So, I spent several hours working with skincare products that I have been so excited to try out. First decline in my day happened here. They were the worst products I have ever tried. I spent hours trying to make the products work because the owner of the company is so passionate about them and had been working on the formula for 10 years. Needless to say, after my arm broke out in a fiery rash I decided to call it quits. He messaged me later in the night and I tiptoed right around that situation. I am not a dream killer.
At this point, I packed my shit up which included an oversized purse filled with nothing that you will ever need. Need some eye drops? Have diarrhea? Name your ailment and I can fix it.
I say my good byes to everyone and head out the door. As I wrote about in my last blog, I have had some issues with the backdoor on my mom car. Well, when I got outside to get into my car the backdoor was wide open. My first thought was that I didn’t really care. I have nothing of value….really. I kind of laughed to myself as I got closer thinking that it would probably suck if someone stole my ONE important item. So, I decided to do a scan of the trunk area to make sure it was still there. This is when that dumb little chuckle I had just done came back to slap me in the face. My only valuable possession was fucking missing. Yes, missing.
I thought to myself that this surely cannot be true because my car looks like a landfill with dog supplies. It literally always smells like dog farts because there is a bag of dog food in there at all times. I started rummaging through random shit in the back to make sure it wasn’t nestled under a rain boot. It was fucking MISSING.
Most of you are probably wondering why I am so stupid to leave this piece of equipment in the car. Great question. I did not realize my door did not shut. So, there is that. Also, this piece of equipment is in a case. Nobody is trying to steal a black Caboodle. Not to mention the fact that the car is so dirty that they would have had to dig through shit to find it. Also, I live in a Shotgun. I have no room to store shit. So, I did the responsible thing and left it in that mom car that I despise even more now.
I began to really question a few important details. Like, when did this happen? I can’t recall the last time I saw that thing. I have no idea when it was stolen. My next question was out of everything there was to steal, you chose a fucking Caboodle? Who was this thief, Rupaul? I am sure when they ran off with my Caboodle tucked under their arm and a bag of dog treats, they thought they pulled a fast one. Joke is on you fuckers. There is no way they would know what the machine was so I am sure that my fancy piece of livelihood is laying in some New Orleans catch basin that has never been cleaned. They left my 10 crusty sweaters from last Winter. They left my IPod from 2009. They left $20 in coins, but stole a Caboodle.
At this point I proceed to drive to the fancy grocery store to buy myself some pitty fancy beer to drink while I licked my wounds. While I aimlessly walked around the fancy, hipster store looking at all the turds in their workout pants talking about soy milk and Macros, I grew more and more angry.
At this point I had a nice little buzz going on because I had definitely dipped in to the client booze at the salon after realizing I had been emotionally and financially violated. So, I grabbed my fancy beer. Made my salad bar salad that always costs no less than $12, and then I saw something that surely had to make me feel better…. a pumpkin. So, I riffled through 30 pumpkins to find just the one that would cheer me up. I couldn’t decide if I wanted the most perfect looking pumpkin or one that was damaged just like me, that nobody would take home to love and adore. I grew bored rather quickly so I picked a real big one that looked like it had been out the night before, maybe drank too much and snorted some lines off the back of a toilet. This pumpkin definitely could use a hair of the dog.
I got home and brought all of my useless items in, put my new drunk pumpkin on the doorstep so everyone could see that I am festive and not just a coldhearted bitch. All the while trying to remind myself to bring that thing in before Halloween so I don’t have to see a bunch of lame little trick-or-treaters banging on my door while I hide in the back of the house like the asshole that I am.
I started looking up prices on replacement equipment and it angered me even more. I bought that thing with my tax return and it had only been used twice since January. It is worth more than my rent. So, I drank myself into a comfortable state of mind and decided to start letting everyone know of this tragedy. I sent out an email to all of my rescue coworkers. The subject let them know that I had been BURGALRIZED. I only got 2 replies. Really lets you know who your true friends are in your time of need. The two that responded aren’t even my close friends. They probably just felt obligated to say that they are so sorry to hear that. Thanks Emily and Ryan, I needed that. I explained that I do realize that I will not be getting this thing back but I wanted to dampen everyone else’s mood so we could suffer together. The only way I will ever find out who took this machine is if I see our neighborhood crack head walking around the neighborhood pantless with baby soft skin. I may have to go pay him a visit in his trap house.
In conclusion, I was wrong. I can hear my father in my ear yelling at me for not being a responsible car owner. It is like the time I did not get my oil changed in the 10th grade till I hit 3,001 miles. Surely he would have never let that happen. And to that I say, touché.
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**This post contains affiliate links and I will be compensated if you make a purchase after clicking on my links.