DABDA

My purse was stolen last night. Containing debit card, credit card, travel card, day planner, phone, keys, camera, memory stick holding over 300+ photos from our recent holiday, and numerous other important-but-not-crucial items like makeup and tampons. (It was a large, and might I say rather perfect handbag.)

Ironically, it happened at a bar called Low Life. How disgustingly fitting.

Over the past 12 hours or so, I’ve been through all the stages of grief.

(Mostly anger though – at myself and at whoever stole it. And lots of crying over both.)

But do YOU know what? Yes you, bastard who stole my bag. I don’t envy you for the bad karma that is surely coming your way.

More importantly, I pity you. Because I bet you don’t have an amazing husband who reassures you that its okay, that it doesn’t REALLY matter, and who helps you through crap situations like this by making phone calls to immobilise your cell phone contract, cancelling credit cards and bank cards, organising new travel cards, and putting things into perspective so that you don’t feel like as much of a complete idiot as you did earlier.

And, you pathetic thief, I bet you also don’t have an awesome mom who you can call in tears of pain and then soon find yourself in tears of laughter over her pure, fantastic madness; I bet you don’t have a dad who adores you and brags about you to total strangers. You probably, sadly, don’t have parents who love and support you unconditionally, infinitely, providing comfort and security beyond belief.

You may have some of my valued items, and you may even profit from some of them. But I have so much more that can’t possibly be valued.

And so I pity you.

Asshole.