Dearest Human Piece of Shit:
Happy Valentine’s Day!
I know, I know. It’s two days late. I’m so sorry. And you left me the MOST AWESOME ANONYMOUS GIFT EVER. And I can’t even be bothered to return the favor in a timely fashion? Where are my effing MANNERS, am I right? I am the WORST.
I know it’s no excuse, but I have been a little busy, what with dealing with the insurance agency, the garage, my father screaming at me for going to a dangerous part of town in the middle of the night and why the hell did I have to move to a big city ANYWAY, getting time off work for auto repair, etc. Little things I should have said and done, I just never took the time, you waste of space, but please, please know, you were always on my mind. YOU WERE ALWAYS ON MY MIND.
I can’t even thank you enough, really. I mean, until I saw your totally awesome and anonymous gift, I was hoping for nothing more than the opportunity to get home in time to watch Justified, because the closest I was going to get to a date on Valentine’s Day was to watch Raylan kick a little ass down in Harlan County, you know? It had been a long couple of days. Hell, it’s been a long week, what with my show opening, tech week, auditions. I was tired. I wanted a couple of popsicles, Dumbcat, Raylan, his hat, and his gun. Maybe a scene of him shirtless, that’d be nice. I’d never object to that, not even on my deathbed.
But as I unlocked my car, I thought, “Huh, this is…huh.” Because where my driver’s side-view mirror was when I parked the car a few hours ago, there was a dangling thing that LOOKED like it USED to be my mirror. And the shiny thing I’d walked past in the street? Well, that shiny thing was mine. My mirror. From inside of the housing. That was now dangling down from the side of the car, swaying ever-so-slightly in the evening breeze.
Now, luckily, I was at the theater, where we have all types of tape, and even more luckily still, our technical director was there with me. Because he was able to tape it securely to my door frame so that when I drove home (way too fast, let’s be honest, I tend to drive fast normally, add to that how overjoyed I was that someone CARED! about LITTLE OLD ME! On VALENTINE’S DAY! Enough to DAMAGE THE ONLY EXPENSIVE THING I OWN! and be LACKING IN BALLS ENOUGH NOT TO LEAVE A NOTE! and I was guaranteed to be hitting speeds of at least 80 on the highway on the way home) it wouldn’t bang and crash against my door and cause MORE damage. Because you wouldn’t want that, now would you, Douchey McDouchebag? No. I can’t imagine you would, right? WHO WOULD WANT TO CAUSE A COMPLETE STRANGER AGITA. And can I just add, there is NOTHING CLASSIER than having parts of your car taped on with black tape? NOTHING.
Then, THEN! I mean, think of the first-time things I got to do, my darling, my sweet, my LIGHT, my LOVE! I got to call the Gecko and explain that I’d either been hit-and-ran or vandalized! And should I call the cops? I had never been in a situation like this! I did not know the protocol! I mean, you were opening up NEW DOORS for me, my most precious piece of rotting boar offal!
The insurance company said that probably it was only worth calling the police if there were “security cameras in the area.” After I laughed until I almost choked to death and explained that no, no security cameras were in effect – (I think my exact words were, “You’re not from AROUND here, are you? We’re a COMMUNITY THEATER GROUP. We can’t afford KLEENEX some days. I think a SECURITY CAMERA and MONITORING OF IT might be out of our price range.”) and LISTEN, the insurance company didn’t even care that there was a piece of plastic in the road that may or may not be a clue! I don’t know if you left that, light of my life, but all I know is, that plastic wasn’t there when I got to the theater, and when I left, my mirror was hanging and that plastic was right by the glass you oh-so-considerately knocked out of my mirror because I wouldn’t be needing that, anyway, what if I cut myself? YOU ARE SO THOUGHTFUL OF MY SAFETY. That plastic? A clue. I HAD A CLUE. But the Gecko didn’t care and told me the cops probably wouldn’t, either. (I even said, “I know, I shouldn’t have picked it up, what if they want to dust for fingerprints?” The Gecko was not amused. Also, the Gecko sounded like a woman from Buffalo. I feel like maybe I’ve been misled by my insurance agency mascot. Is it too much to ask to have the Gecko answer the phone when I call? What, he was too busy making commercials or something?)
So, taped-up and with an incident report in place with the Gecko who was not a Gecko, and an hour late, meaning NO JUSTIFIED, and realizing that, no matter what happened, I would be paying money OUT OF MY OWN POCKET for this thing called a “deductible” because even though – EVEN THOUGH! – I pay about $100 a month for insurance, I STILL have to meet this “deductible” for auto repairs, EVEN IF I DID NOTHING WRONG – I was ready to head home. This deductible was in place even if I was parked, completely legally, and running auditions, all nice and safe and sound in my theater, being all official and theatery. Yes, I realize most people probably already know this. I’ve never been in an accident. Well, no, that’s not true. I was, once. A fender bender. And I was a deadbeat then and didn’t have car insurance. And neither did the guy I hit. So we shook hands and decided not to report it. Because who would we report it to? Imaginary police? Imaginary insurance agents? We were a couple of damn dirty hippie deadbeats.
SO! I am now down money that I was SAVING FOR AN EFFING LAPTOP to make repairs on my car that I did NOT NEED TO MAKE until you, you absolute PEACH of a human being, decided to either hit (unlikely) or vandalize (more likely) my car. On Valentine’s Day. Because if it WAS an accident, that mirror would have been in a completely different place than it landed, and there would have been a lot more body damage, I think. SHUT UP. I totally watch Criminal Minds and Castle. I know how to recreate a crime scene. Dr. Spencer Reid and Captain Tightpants taught me.
OH! And the garage can’t get the part in the color my car comes in? So until I can get home and my brother, who does detailing and body work, can paint it? My side-view mirror IS NOT GOING TO BE THE SAME COLOR AS THE REST OF THE CAR. So I’m going to have Frankencar. Yes! I am going to be the CLASSIEST BITCH IN ALL THE LAND. Please knock out my taillights next; I’d like to cover them with masking tape I’ve scribbled over with a red magic marker. To really class up my joint, you know?
Now, here’s my question. Did something about my car scream “this is a rich person so she can totally afford repairs and also THIS IS THE MAN, LET’S TEACH THE MAN A LESSON?” If so, my car was lying to you. My car is almost ten years old; it’s covered in scratches, little dings, bangs, and bumps, the air conditioning has never worked, it didn’t even COME with a CD player INSTALLED (and I sure as hell can’t afford to get one installed), and sometimes the “your airbags aren’t working” light randomly decides to come on for no reason I can ascertain. Also, I hit curbs a lot (shut up, I’m distracty and also have a lack of spatial relations), so the front license plate is all crooked and bent. If that car seemed to you to be totally the car of a privileged person? Well. Maybe you need glasses? I don’t know what to tell you about that. IT’S A TAURUS. Ford Taurus = the patron car of low-to-middle-class America, my darlin’ Thugentine.
Also, on the topic of rich people: no one that’s rehearsing over at that theater is overly rich. Have you not learned that by breaking into our cars? I mean, you’ve broken into enough of them to know. The most you ever find is Kleenex, pennies, and gum. In mine, you won’t even find the pennies. Or even the gum. (You will, however, find cassette tapes, because sometimes I like to listen to music from the PAST and ROCK IT OLD SCHOOL.) I spent those pennies ages ago, and I can’t even CHEW gum, I have TMJ. And what did I spend those pennies on? Frivolous purchases? Like laces and fancy silks and hats for Derby Day? NO. I SPENT THEM ON FOOD. Listen, there are weeks I’ve survived on popcorn and eggs and canned tuna, buddy. These weeks? WERE IN THIS DECADE. I am not a rich person. You deciding to either hit and run or vandalize my car means that, in order to pass inspection, which is due in two weeks, I have to get that mirror replaced: and that costs me AN ENTIRE SHIFT AT MY SECOND JOB. Yes! I have a SECOND job. Because my first job doesn’t pay me enough to survive on. So thank you! Thank you for that. Yes, I do have the money? Because I’ve been saving every single penny for a laptop because my ten-year-old computer’s about to give me a “this does not compute” message and belch out black smoke and die ANY MINUTE NOW, all cartoon-style? That’s not the point, though. That money was not FOR extraneous car repairs. That money was for a LAPTOP. So I can BLOG. Without the computer FREEZING every FIVE FRIGGING MINUTES. Like a CHAMP. Like a BOSS.
Were you trying to get my attention? Is that it? Was this your pull-the-pigtails-of-the-girl-you-have-a-crush-on maneuver? Or, even better, were you bored? Either way, was this entertainment for you? If so, bra-friggin-vo. Stellar work, sir, or ma’am, just stellar. I hope from your Peeping Tom or Thomasina tree branch you could see me mentally waving goodbye to almost a fifth of the money I have saved up; money that’s taken me a very long time to save. And I hope you had fun, either smashing into my car and driving away or hitting it with a baseball bat like this is a teen romp and you’re getting initiated into a gang, I really do. I mean, I work at a theater, and we do so like to entertain the unwashed masses. If effing up my car did that for you, MY WORK IS DONE HERE.
I do have to thank you; I’ve gained a new pen pal from this experience. My new friend, the “thank you for contacting us here at the Albany Police Department” bot, and I are VERY HAPPY TOGETHER. I’m sure the bot was so pleased to get my email this morning pleading with it to have a cop or two patrol the area now and then in the evenings, as it’s become dangerous to park there. I mean, three people in the past six months who work at my theater have had to get car repairs. But I’m sure that’s not ALL you, my favorite Valentine, right? I’m SPECIAL. That vandalism and/or hit and run? That was ALL FOR ME. Right? Right. I’m one special beloved Valentine snowflake, I am.
So, my sweetest dear, I do so thank you for thinking of me. I’d very much like to return the favor. Please leave your car parked outside the theater on Friday evening, around 11pm, and just turn away for 15-20 minutes. It’s all I ask. I’ve been dying to try out my Office Space-gleaned destroying a printer moves on something; your car would be the perfect target, I think. I don’t have a baseball bat, but we do have plenty of Alice’s Restaurant-esque shovels and rakes and implements of destruction hanging around, including a couple of sweet swords and some old televisions and typewriters that I’d love to drop from our second story windows onto your car. I mean, we have props. Don’t you worry about the PROPS. We are prepared, props-wise.
My love for you knows no bounds. I certainly hope you know that. I mean, if not for you, not a SINGLE PERSON would have thought of me on Valentine’s Day. Thank you, sir or ma’am, thank YOU, for making me feel remembered on that day of all days.
My very best to you, sir or ma’am. Your momma should be proud, bringing up such a stellar example of personhood. You deserve a medal. Hell, you deserve an effing coronation.
(The kind of coronation that Khal Drogo gave Viserys Targaryen in A Game of Thrones? Yes. That’ll do, pig.)
With much love, admiration, and just the teeniest added if I ever see your face, you can be sure I’ll claw your eyes out with my super-fancy-painted fingernails that are all chipping off because I CAN’T AFFORD MORE NAILPOLISH YOU PIECE OF DOGSHIT,