I need a hug.
And a box of girl scout cookies.
And a mimosa.
And a quart of Chunky Monkey.
And another hug.
My purse got stolen from under my desk at work yesterday. Work is rough as it is. It's divorce counseling. IN LOS ANGELES. Is there anything more contentious than working in divorce with an all female staff who all share the same menstrual cycle? You can imagine that at the end of my day, I'm ready to bolt out of that place and speed home just to enjoy some peace. Maybe this is why I like living by myself. I can find this little tiny sliver of peace when I come back to ole Casa de Ray Hay.
I couldn't wait to go home last night. Typical workday made me want to puke. I went to get my keys, and my purse was gone.
Seeing that I grew up in a gang banger town, I always implement heightened security. My fellow coworkers (not all of them) are always leaving the back door to our office wide open. I always say, "It's all good until a crazy homeless man runs in here and murders all of us. KEEP THE EFFIN BACK DOOR CLOSED."
So. Of course, the back door was open all day.
And some d-bag stole my damn purse.
Now, the fact that my purse is gone isn't the worst thing. I have to spend all day at the bank and the DMV and all that today- that's an inconvenience. It's a hassle. It's not the end of the world.
I'm sad that my Ipod is gone.
I'm sad about this because I always take it with me when I travel, and I feel creative when I travel, and I think life is funnier when I travel, so I had a lot of my stand up material written into my Ipod, and it had not been transferred into my computer yet.
So all of my hilarity is gone.
You know, sometimes I have these days where I'm driving down the PCH and my windows are down and I'm listening to Tom Petty and I'm feasting my eyes on palm trees and the sunset and the Pacific Ocean, and there's this sadness in my heart about leaving this town. And then the window of my car gets busted out with a crowbar, my purse gets stolen, and I have the worst interpersonal experiences OF MY LIFE just by living here.
I'm not catastrophizing and saying that all of L.A. is full of crooks and a-holes... but I kind of am.
I guess I'm beating a dead horse by saying I'm ready to move home, but I am. I'm just ready to have an emotional break. I'm ready to be able to sleep at night and not be worries that somebody is going to come in and murder me. Before you diagnose me with paranoia, remember that my purse, with my photo ID, with my ADDRESS, with KEYS TO MY HOUSE, with KEYS TO MY CAR, got stolen. So old Bob the Purse Snatcher knows where I live and could walk right up to my apartment and shove a pillow over my face while my body writhes around like a snake with its head chopped off until I go blue and limp. And now is not the time for me to get murdered. I haven't had my roots done and my nails are chipped, and there ain't no way I'm gettin in a casket looking like white trash.
As shitty as some of my circumstances have been, I've learned so many amazing things since I've lived in this town. I've even made one or two amazing friends that are once-in-a-lifetime kind of people. I've learned what it means to forgive. I've learned what it means to accept things that are beyond my control. I've learned that I'm more and less self sufficient than I think.
I had so many great ideas for Blogs rolling around in my head, and now that I'm making my to-do list of bullshit I have to do today to take care of the Great Stolen Purse Incident of 2010, I can't really remember them. I was going to write about my family visiting and crazy people and this girl at the CVS pharmacy that I almost choked to death because she was such a jerk and my new man friend coming to visit, but all of those things have to wait.
I'm off to manhandle the DMV.
