RP: I read your mixtape story.
Me: Thank you.
RP: When I was a kid, I dreamed of being a superhero.
RP: I was going to be like Batman -- scratch that, I was going to BE Batman.
Me: Dude, what...?
RP: Did you ever want to be a superhero?
Me: Of course.
RP: So but then what happened?
Me: What do you mean?
RP: Your mixtape thing. You had crime at your doorstep. And your response was to do something for the criminal that you used to do for girls in high school?
RP: You should've given him a box of chocolates and then tried to finger him in the band room too. Then he'd have gotten the entire experience.
Me: Well, I mean, but there were two burglars, and I only have so many fingers, so.
Me: :( I have to go.
Still, despite that, I still felt good about things. The Burgundy Bomber existed, free of unwanted entry. I assumed the burglars saw the note, realized the heinousness of their actions, realized how disappointing their lives had become, and then went home and immediately enrolled in some sort of trade school or something. I assumed the trajectory of their lives had been altered forever.
Alas, this is not a story written by Pixar. There is no happy ending. There is only dark, lonely emptiness. There are only holes where hearts should be. There is only profound sadness. God is a lie -- or, at the very best, an occasional cock punch.
The Burgundy Bomber, THE ONLY CAR THAT I'VE EVER LOVED, MY ABSOLUTE FAVORITE INANIMATE OBJECT OF EVER, has been stolen.
(Only this, for the rest of my life.)
It happened between 7 p.m. Sunday and 7 a.m. Monday, a lovely little antigift waiting for me when I went outside to get in it and go to work.