Erin's Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

Yesterday my life sucked because some asshole decided to be an asshole.

My wallet was stolen.  Here's what I don't understand: I had little Wallety--that's what we'll call him for now--no, he should have a name.  Especially since he's gone now and I have to mourn his loss.  How can you mourn something without a name?  How do you begin or end your woeful thoughts and utterances without addressing the object of those woeful thoughts and utterances?  I guess I could just call it Wallet, but I don't like doing that.  Important things should have names, and ol' Wallety was very important to me.  No, Wallety won't do.  I mean if that's acceptable, then by all rights I should just be called Humany.  It's not even remotely witty.  My guitars have names--proper ones too.  (Bertram and Hadley, in case you were wondering, and I know you were.)  My car is Silver Bullet, even though it's not silver at all but black.  Neither is it exactly a "bullet", but that's another story entirely.  And I don't want to drag Silver Bullet's name through the mud--he's been a good car.  And he's ten years old, so I don't blame him for any of his internal problems.  I've gotten off topic.  Oh, right.  I need a name for my late wallet--and it can't be Wallety.  I'm better than that.  And so is Wallety my late wallet.  Oh, jeez, let's see here.  You guys are just gonna have to give me a second.  I cannot possibly proceed with my story at this point without a name for him.

I'm back and I've got it!  It's perfect.  I just feel bad that he only gets it after he's passed (yes, that's right--passed--because I equate his loss to death; anyone want to challenge me, the girl whose wallet just got stolen?).  I should have given it to him seven years ago, when he was first born (= given to me as a gift).  Giancarlo.  That's his name.

So anyway, Giancarlo got taken from me yesterday.  And here's what I don't understand: I had him the night before when I was sitting in the comfort of my home, ordering a Jimmy John's sandwich online, which I had delivered.  I didn't leave the house all day that day.  It was my day off and I stayed in and worked on my book.  So, I had it that night to order my sandwich, which was awesome, by the way.  And yesterday morning I went straight from my apartment to my car to work.  And since I called my fiance when I found out and made him search the apartment for it and he came up empty handed (not to mention I came home and searched myself for good measure) I know it had to have happened in transit.  The only way this could be is if it somehow fell out of my purse in my apartment complex parking lot or the parking lot at my work.  But here's the thing--my purse, Schuyler, is huge and voluminous.  Giancarlo always sinks to the bottom of him--I could comfortably fit a giraffe inside Schuyler.  A very small one at least.  Like one that was just born or something.  And here's the other thing: Giancarlo is a hefty guy.  Big, rectangular, thick leather, full of coins and paper and plastic that make him even heavier.  If he had fallen out of Schuyler, I would have felt him topple over the side.  AND I would have heard Giancarlo's substantial body hit the ground.

If you would like to play Detective Scientist for a moment and test this theory, here is what you can do.  Go into your closet, or to your front door, or wherever it is that you keep your shoes, and pick up a tennis shoe--like, any kind of trainer shoe that looks/feels like a normal, fairly chunky, pretty heavy shoe, as far as shoes go.  Now hold it at waist height.  Now drop it.  Hear that sound?  Even if you were on carpet and the sound was muffled, it was a pretty big thud, right?  Well, Giancarlo was definitely heavier than that shoe.  I know without even seeing your shoe because I just know.  I don't care if you call this experiment a sham and say I'm skewing it in my favor.  The truth is the truth and I know the truth.  Giancarlo was heavier than your shoe!  So I would have heard him hit the ground.  And that's that. 

Now let's investigate another faulty facet of this whole "he fell right out of Schuyler" theory.  I am an extremely observant, cautious, high-strung and worrisome individual.  I am always careful.  (Another truth that is the truth that I know.)  My attention to detail has earned me recognition at every job I've ever had, not to mention in educational settings.  I am alert to a fault.  I can't seem to ever turn off my attentiveness so I end up maintaining a notable but manageable level of anxiety on a daily basis.  Here are some illustrated examples of this:

To make sure I know that I am this way, people have been kind enough to give me nicknames in the past, such as Worry-Wart, Tight-Ass, once simply "OCD",  Uptight White Girl, and my personal favorite, Miss Anal.  So do you really think "Miss Anal", who is, by name, anal-retentive, would just fail to notice her beloved Giancarlo falling from the folds of Schuyler onto the great, concrete abyss below?  No.  I absolutely, positively would have heard the thud.  And that, too, is a truth that's the truth that I know.

The only explanation is straight-up theft--some asshole must have pilfered it right out of my purse behind the counter at work when my back was turned or I was away from the front desk, helping a customer.  Jerk.  Asshole-jerk-face.  Anyway, I found out because I had a free moment at work and I pulled out Max--that's my phone--to see if I had any missed calls/messages.  And boy did I ever.  I had to call the bank back and they told me that Asshole-Jerk-Face tried to spend $187 at Walgreens but it got declined.  So they must have gone to a different Walgreens because the next charge went through, only it was for $306 (!!).  Seriously?  Walgreens??  Come on, Asshole-Jerk-Face-Random-Stupid-Head, if you're going to steal someone's wallet and use their credit card why not at least go to a supercenter, like Walmart or something, where you have a lot more choices and lower prices, meaning you can get more for your my money?  How the hell does someone even spend $300 in a f*cking Walgreens??  What is there besides diapers and candy?  Okay, I suppose they have some cosmetics and cans of Spaghettios as well.  So I guess Asshole-Jerk-Face-Random-Stupid-Head just stocked up on a bunch of crap from The Crap Store, which is Walgreens' official name now (at least for me) because they didn't ID Asshole-Jerk-Face-Random-Stupid-Head to see that it wasn't their card they were using!!!  I just keep picturing this person walking into The Crap Store and loading up on crap and handing The Crap Store clerk my card, like they are me, and then signing MY NAME on the receipt.  I feel violated.  You may as well have felt me up, Asshole-Jerk-Face-Random-Stupid-Head.  You hear that?  Are you reading this?  I know you're not, which is why I'm allowing myself to be so free with my anger, otherwise that notable but manageable level of anxiety I maintain every day would be rising steadily out of fear of being tracked down and silenced by the stealer of my money and identity.  But I also kind of wish you are reading this.  And I hope you think long and hard about what you've done!

I am a loving, gentle, non-confrontational, open, compassionate, unprejudiced person.

But I hope this pathetic, selfish creature falls into a deep, dark hole with no way to get out and has to stay there for three whole days with no sign of life passing by to help.  And then--do you know what I hope happens then?  I hope that someone does come by and finds Asshole-Jerk-Face-Random-Stupid-Head and he/she gets really excited because they're finally going to get rescued and they get their hopes all up only to have them crushed again when no one comes to save him/her because the person who came by either forgets or recognizes from Asshole-Jerk-Face-Random-Stupid-Head's energy and appearance alone that he/she is a stealer and deserves punishment of the deep, dark hole variety.  I really hope it's the latter.

And that's the story of my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

Also, why do I assume everything is masculine?  My wallet, my purse, my car, my phone and one of my guitars.  I do not know why this is.  Out of my ten fingers, I consider six of them to be masculine.  They don't have names, but I know their sexes.

I am a weird girl; I know this.  But weird girls don't deserve to be robbed.

UPDATE: I filed a police report because I have a suspicion as to who maybe, possibly took Giancarlo away from me, if, in fact, it was stolen while I was at work.  I will keep you abreast of the situation (since I know you are all rapt with attention).