My apartment got broken into yesterday afternoon. Afternoon! I was at kickball from shortly after 1pm to just after 5. (Terrible! I mean, I had fun, but I’m terrible in my kickball. Some people make the game look so easy, and I had a couple (1) coulda been clappable plays, but overall, no. Regardless of ball size, my hand-eye coordination is non-existant.)
I’m a little more calm – a lot calmer – than yesterday. All they took was [some of] mine and my roomie’s greens, and $20 from my nightstand. Maaaaaaybe a few dollars from my money bag, but I can’t remember how much was in there; could’ve been only a few bucks to 30+? Personal documents of the IDing variety are all present and accounted for. Very bizarre – it’s as if they maybe had the wrong address, but took some goodies that couldn’t be traced nor thoroughly reported, and split. My younger brother joked about how it can’t feel good knowing that literally none of my stuff is worth taking.
They ransacked the hell out of the apartment, though. Searching? Malicious? A warning? I don’t know.
I came down the gangway – again during the daytime, mind you – and I saw the broken glass from my roomie’s window and thought, “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” and proceeded to open the unlocked door. (Maybe I’m thinking that it’s my roomie and he maybe forgot his key and to call me, or I’m just in some dumb shock and go inside because I’m not sure what else to do.)
I opened the door slowly and said, “Well, I didn’t leave the apartment like this…” actually it was probably something like, “Nononononononononononono” followed by a string of profanities as my heart began to beat faster and my brain registered the open doors and drawers, and discarded contents all over the floors. (At that point it could’ve still been happening – it wasn’t – but I, and the police, didn’t know that.) I walked out front with wet eyes, in shock, and said to my neighbor on the stoop, “Hi, I’m Kate. I don’t think we’ve met yet.” She introduced herself, and then I said, “I think my apartment was broken into – I mean it was. I guess I should call the police, huh? Did you see anything?”
My neighbor took care of my babbling self and kept me sane while we waited for the police to come. Thirty-two minutes. She said I should’ve told ‘em that I thought the perps were still inside to get ‘em there in half the time. I canvassed the neighborhood, or at least the people who walked by, and the two boys playing ball on the court across the street. No one saw anything.
When the cops came they moved as slow as snails. Then, when I went to introduce myself to the first officer, he was all like “whatever” when I went to extend my hand and only gave me a limp half hand which made me cringe and want to wipe my hand on my shorts and ask him to leave. (I lost it a little [more] at that moment.)
Livid. Invaded. Marginalized.
Nothing was disturbed outside of the bedrooms, which are both easily accessible and in sight of that side entrance. (And they/he/she came in through the tiniest pane of broken window, with no blood to be seen!)
Drawers were dumped everywhere; papers, pictures, clothes, and other belongings were strewn across every surface. A majority of me was pissed about having to clean and reorganize everything, but there was a small part that celebrated the opportunity to experience the feelings and inevitably (right now) write about it later.
My roomie and his girlfriend came moments after the 5-0. The cops talked to him over me because I guess they thought I was hysterical; I was crying in my room, sitting in the middle, shuffling papers around and putting drawers back in their place, whimpering “Why would they do this?” followed by sob, sob, sob. Then I’d get angry and shout out, “I hope they felt bad while they did this, fuckers!” And then there would be a few long groans, and I’d ask, to no one in particular, “Do you think they even felt bad when they did this?” And then the gravity of all the unanswered questions settled and I wanted to erase the moment and all those of the afternoon preceding it.
“I just don’t get it…”
The cops saw this all the time. They sauntered around the apartment, commenting on how electronics remained and things were undisturbed in living spaces. I sniffled and gave them my contact information, choking back the angry sobs. I flashed back to that time was slapped with an MIP when I was 19, and a couple of my friends were handcuffed, and I cried as we got our Miranda Rights, right in the middle of a crowded CoMO bar.
“Get a board over that window tonight. The sooner you get it fixed, the better. You guys have someplace else to stay?” We nodded. “Good. Listen, it was a smash and grab. It’s unfortunate, but it happens, and you both are okay. Probably a couple of dumb kids. Maybe it was random. Maybe they were watching.”
“What?!” I gulped.
The officer turned to me, and very gently said, “You’ll get over this. It might take a day or two, it might take a month. You have our information. The [other guys] will be here to dust in 30 minutes to two hours.” And then he gave some parting phrase, but I had already wandered away at that point. I kept imagining the ghosts of invaders rifling through my things, seeing my life in frenzied flashes while they looked for what?! I felt numb, but enraged; exhausted and upset.
Those other guys? They never came. My roomie said the cops called today, the next day, at 11:30am. What’s the point of dusting when they didn’t take anything to trace? Um, maybe so that they can be caught and not do it again?
I returned the new neighbor’s “Rock Chalk Jayhawk” cup, and asked if she went to KU since my hometown was near there. She went to Indiana and Iowa for her undergrad and masters, and couldn’t remember how she had the cup.
After the welcomed guests left I took a shower and went to meet up with an old friend from overseas and her Turkish lover. Throughout our Japanese dinner I faded in between lively conversation and a shocked, saddened, and outraged haze. Then I biked up to some friends’ place and crashed there.
Two of one my friend’s friends from HS were there because one was in town from San Fran. On the way back from walking them to their car my friend explained that SF had been brutally attacked and mugged two years ago – kicked in the face after being beat down to the ground, and all that sort of messed up shit. As a result, she suffers from PTSD, and has to take a prescription cocktail to manage because shortly after the attack she would scream if someone touched her hand or spoke too loudly, and going out of the house after dark was absolutely out of the question.
After hearing about her situation I continued to count my blessings, and thanked the universe that my ordeal was what it was, and only that.
Today, though, I jump at clicks and the building settling. Home alone at night and looking forward to the morning light.
Five hours to go, and I’m nowhere near the pillow.
Lesson of the story: regardless of if you think the perp is still in your place, tell the police you think you heard something (and that you're scared).
I’m a little more calm – a lot calmer – than yesterday. All they took was [some of] mine and my roomie’s greens, and $20 from my nightstand. Maaaaaaybe a few dollars from my money bag, but I can’t remember how much was in there; could’ve been only a few bucks to 30+? Personal documents of the IDing variety are all present and accounted for. Very bizarre – it’s as if they maybe had the wrong address, but took some goodies that couldn’t be traced nor thoroughly reported, and split. My younger brother joked about how it can’t feel good knowing that literally none of my stuff is worth taking.
They ransacked the hell out of the apartment, though. Searching? Malicious? A warning? I don’t know.
I came down the gangway – again during the daytime, mind you – and I saw the broken glass from my roomie’s window and thought, “You gotta be fucking kidding me,” and proceeded to open the unlocked door. (Maybe I’m thinking that it’s my roomie and he maybe forgot his key and to call me, or I’m just in some dumb shock and go inside because I’m not sure what else to do.)
I opened the door slowly and said, “Well, I didn’t leave the apartment like this…” actually it was probably something like, “Nononononononononononono” followed by a string of profanities as my heart began to beat faster and my brain registered the open doors and drawers, and discarded contents all over the floors. (At that point it could’ve still been happening – it wasn’t – but I, and the police, didn’t know that.) I walked out front with wet eyes, in shock, and said to my neighbor on the stoop, “Hi, I’m Kate. I don’t think we’ve met yet.” She introduced herself, and then I said, “I think my apartment was broken into – I mean it was. I guess I should call the police, huh? Did you see anything?”
My neighbor took care of my babbling self and kept me sane while we waited for the police to come. Thirty-two minutes. She said I should’ve told ‘em that I thought the perps were still inside to get ‘em there in half the time. I canvassed the neighborhood, or at least the people who walked by, and the two boys playing ball on the court across the street. No one saw anything.
When the cops came they moved as slow as snails. Then, when I went to introduce myself to the first officer, he was all like “whatever” when I went to extend my hand and only gave me a limp half hand which made me cringe and want to wipe my hand on my shorts and ask him to leave. (I lost it a little [more] at that moment.)
Livid. Invaded. Marginalized.
Nothing was disturbed outside of the bedrooms, which are both easily accessible and in sight of that side entrance. (And they/he/she came in through the tiniest pane of broken window, with no blood to be seen!)
Drawers were dumped everywhere; papers, pictures, clothes, and other belongings were strewn across every surface. A majority of me was pissed about having to clean and reorganize everything, but there was a small part that celebrated the opportunity to experience the feelings and inevitably (right now) write about it later.
My roomie and his girlfriend came moments after the 5-0. The cops talked to him over me because I guess they thought I was hysterical; I was crying in my room, sitting in the middle, shuffling papers around and putting drawers back in their place, whimpering “Why would they do this?” followed by sob, sob, sob. Then I’d get angry and shout out, “I hope they felt bad while they did this, fuckers!” And then there would be a few long groans, and I’d ask, to no one in particular, “Do you think they even felt bad when they did this?” And then the gravity of all the unanswered questions settled and I wanted to erase the moment and all those of the afternoon preceding it.
“I just don’t get it…”
The cops saw this all the time. They sauntered around the apartment, commenting on how electronics remained and things were undisturbed in living spaces. I sniffled and gave them my contact information, choking back the angry sobs. I flashed back to that time was slapped with an MIP when I was 19, and a couple of my friends were handcuffed, and I cried as we got our Miranda Rights, right in the middle of a crowded CoMO bar.
“Get a board over that window tonight. The sooner you get it fixed, the better. You guys have someplace else to stay?” We nodded. “Good. Listen, it was a smash and grab. It’s unfortunate, but it happens, and you both are okay. Probably a couple of dumb kids. Maybe it was random. Maybe they were watching.”
“What?!” I gulped.
The officer turned to me, and very gently said, “You’ll get over this. It might take a day or two, it might take a month. You have our information. The [other guys] will be here to dust in 30 minutes to two hours.” And then he gave some parting phrase, but I had already wandered away at that point. I kept imagining the ghosts of invaders rifling through my things, seeing my life in frenzied flashes while they looked for what?! I felt numb, but enraged; exhausted and upset.
Those other guys? They never came. My roomie said the cops called today, the next day, at 11:30am. What’s the point of dusting when they didn’t take anything to trace? Um, maybe so that they can be caught and not do it again?
I returned the new neighbor’s “Rock Chalk Jayhawk” cup, and asked if she went to KU since my hometown was near there. She went to Indiana and Iowa for her undergrad and masters, and couldn’t remember how she had the cup.
After the welcomed guests left I took a shower and went to meet up with an old friend from overseas and her Turkish lover. Throughout our Japanese dinner I faded in between lively conversation and a shocked, saddened, and outraged haze. Then I biked up to some friends’ place and crashed there.
Two of one my friend’s friends from HS were there because one was in town from San Fran. On the way back from walking them to their car my friend explained that SF had been brutally attacked and mugged two years ago – kicked in the face after being beat down to the ground, and all that sort of messed up shit. As a result, she suffers from PTSD, and has to take a prescription cocktail to manage because shortly after the attack she would scream if someone touched her hand or spoke too loudly, and going out of the house after dark was absolutely out of the question.
After hearing about her situation I continued to count my blessings, and thanked the universe that my ordeal was what it was, and only that.
Today, though, I jump at clicks and the building settling. Home alone at night and looking forward to the morning light.
Five hours to go, and I’m nowhere near the pillow.
Lesson of the story: regardless of if you think the perp is still in your place, tell the police you think you heard something (and that you're scared).
One good thing about the gates opening early was the cut in waiting time - we were probably only in line for an hour, or so. I got a sinking feeling in my chest as we pulled into the campgrounds, surrounded by unfamiliar, far off seeming landmarks of highways and fence borders... this looks miles away from last year, and to prove it, 
(Above: view grounds from roof of car, KVH. Note: music straight ahead and to the left) Our neighbors were Max and Susie from DC, and Elliot, Colby and Derek from Iowa. We were all smiles. The clouds were perfect nap coverage, so Katie and I took advantage of the cool afternoon and snuggled down; in the tiny tent I threatened farts as we were head-to-feet and my butt was in her face; I laughed, she smacked.
Lifesavas and the Mighty Underdogs DJin' MJ shit from the Quannum All Stars. Future Rock was synth happy and bass heavy, super trance! I really liked 
SUNDAY!! chillin' [out max and relaxin' all cool]
