So, I’m mentioned yesterday that things haven’t been going so well lately. Here’s the reason:

On Sunday night, my car got burglarized as it sat in the parking lot at The Girlfriend’s apartment complex.

It was my own damn fault, because I carelessly left my doors unlocked. Some opportunistic bastard just happened by, saw a victim ready for the exploiting, and took whatever they could find. I’m willing to bet they were in an out of the car in less than 30 seconds.

On the positive side, the car was completely undamaged — at least the thief didn’t break out a window or slash my convertible top to get in — and the total value of the items taken wasn’t much, probably less than $100. But it’s an awful feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when you realize that something’s not right as you’re settling into the driver’s seat. When you start thinking, Hey, I didn’t leave my center console box open like that, did I?, and then the knowledge comes in a cold, stilleto-thin flash that, no, you did not leave the console open. It is a cliche to talk about feeling violated in these circumstances, but damn if that isn’t the first word that leaps to mind. Knowing that there was some… stranger… sitting in my Mustang, sitting in my driver’s seat, rumaging through my stuff… it’s frightening and infuriating and ultimately quite emasculating because there’s not a damn thing you can do about it after the fact. And, in my particular case, it’s also humiliating, because, as I mentioned already, I’ve got no one to blame but myself.

Well, that’s not entirely true. Obviously the scumbag who took my stuff had a choice about whether or not to open the door, open the console and glove compartment, and grab someone else’s things. Some of the blame surely belongs with him. (I’m assuming it was a him, and probably a young him at that — I imagine someone in baggy pants, puffy white athletic shoes, and an oversized sweatshirt with the hood up, possibly also wearing a cap with the bill turned sideways — although these days you really can’t tell. It could’ve been a her, or a middle-aged yuppie in conservative clothes. Who knows? But the stereotypes are alive and well around The Girlfriend’s apartment, and apparently in my own mind as well.) Even so, it wouldn’t have happened if I’d been more conscientious about clicking the little remote-control fob on my keychain.

For the record, the items taken comprised two CDs (actually two CD cases, only one of which contained an actual compact disc; take that, you little bastard!), a Mini MagLite flashlight I was rather attached to (it went to Germany and back with me a few years ago), and a zippered portfolio containing the car’s registration and owner’s manual (I suspect the thief grabbed the portfolio because it resembles a CD case). I’ve already bought a new MagLite, ordered a replacement owner’s manual, and obtained a duplicate of the registration, as well as having the car alarm’s sensitivity tweaked by the installer (not that it will do any good if it’s not armed, of course). I still need to pay the my local library for those CDs, which were both loaners, but basically I guess the whole thing is over and done with. However, running all those errands cost me the Martin Luther King holiday on Monday (which I’d planned to spend on creative, non-blog-oriented writing), and I’ve been feeling like an utter bonehead for several days now. Not to mention finding myself considerably more sour towards my fellow man. At the risk of sounding like my father, you used to be able to trust people in these parts.

Just file this one under World, subheading Bucket, Going to Hell in a.