So, I’m in Kansas City. I said I’d provide an update when I arrived in Arkansas, but for the moment, I’m here.
My car got broken into last night.
I walked out in boxers and sunglasses with a killer grin on my face at 1PM this afternoon only to find my back window smashed and my briefcase gone, the one my dad gave me for graduation. They only stole one thing, something buried underneath a blanket and a suit jacket, and it mystified and killed me a little, partly due to the administrative annoyance, but mostly due to the sentimentality of it. It had my passport. It had my dumb little Bluetooth speaker, which I liked because it was red and I got a good deal on it and it was decently loud. It had my fashionable flask with embroidered bow-ties. It had my medication and my grandfather’s old stationary.
They took my travel journal.
It was embossed with my name. It had a special note inside it. It was a Christmas gift from The Bedfellow. It wasn’t full, it was barely even there, but it feels like it was killed in its infancy a little. That was all the documentation I had of our trip to Montreal, and of my adventures thus far. Walking barefoot in Oberlin in the middle of a flash flood to tend to chickens, driving through Pennsylvania in my silly polo shirt, typing a letter on my old typewriter in the middle of a dreary suburban town in Illinois. My thoughts, my intimate fears and curiosities about this whole part of the world I’m just barely flirting with, getting to know. My drawings. It’s gone.I’m clinging to strange, silly things right now, like keeping the air conditioner above 65 to simulate a breeze when the windows won’t open and wearing my Jeni’s ‘The Dairy Heir’ shirt that I bought in Columbus, the elephant made of towels that the maid folded, and keeping TLC on at the highest volume while I try to drown out my thoughts. I’m drinking a cup of lukewarm decaf to replicate the quintessential police station experience that a vapid operator and call system just couldn’t replicate. These things happen. They happen all the time, right? I’m grasping to what I have. I’m mourning what’s gone. They didn’t take my laptops, my iPad, torch my car. My camera’s safe and sound. There’s still fucking Easter candy from my mom in the passenger seat of my car, covered in broken glass. Ten minutes after the police report I got a phone call from a telemarketer trying to sell me a home security system. You can’t write this shit, but here I am.So I’m eating donut gravel. I bought it at the North Market on a sunny day. It’s from Jeni’s, and it’s pretty good. It doesn’t taste like donuts or gravel, but it’s pretty good and it’s sweet with a nice, salty bite, and some of the pieces have sprinkles on them. It’s messy. It’s a good, distracting snack for the exhausted and distraught. The call waiting song at this CVS is Lizst’s ‘Liebestraume’. I’m wearing mismatched socks and keep whispering the last line of ‘The Unnameable’ to stay calm. I showered in a really, really fucking great shower this morning with magically perfect water pressure. Somewhere, someplace, a window shaped like mine is flying and passing through hands to be placed in the empty socket where the glass was broken. Life is not on hold. So, par for the course, I guess things are all right. Things are all right. I’m here.