Because fate has decided to be – as Random_nexus so eloquently puts it – a giant arsemonkey

It’s my anniversary today.  One might expect that to start out with a card or loving note, or even flowers (though I’d be happy with a note.)  That was not to be so.

No, today started out – around midnight – with my husband’s motorcycle (which is his daily driver) being stolen from right in front of our house.  It was taken in the literal 45 minutes I was gone, because I was being kind and needed to go render a jump for a dead battery.  The husband was at work (he works most days, now), and we both got back about the same time to find our lovely anniversary gift.  Aren’t people so thoughtful?

So we called it in, and while we were waiting for the police to show up, he did a drive around in my car to look for it.  Nothing came of it, and I fully expect it’s been stripped and parted out by now.  I’ve no idea how we’re going to recoup this; the insurance, I’m sure, won’t cover getting a replacement, and what he had was hard to find to begin with – we had to have it shipped over a few states.  It was the one nice damned thing we had, and I’m not even going to get into the gear that was in the locked saddle bags that are now gone, too.

I know, I’m ranting at this point, but I’m frustrated, and hurt, and have lost another large chunk of my faith in humanity.  On top of it all, it’s rekindled my anxiety about leaving the house unattended that had me feeling trapped here since the last break in two houses over a few months ago.  Because they are watching, and waiting until we leave our houses to steal from us.  They’re catching us in half hour and hour windows when we go to the store, or the post office, and hitting us then, every couple of months.  I’m tired of this.  I moved all the way out here to get away from most of this shit.  What the absolute fuck.

I’ll stop now.  I’m just… incredibly frustrated, and there’s no reason that I should be feeling /guilty/ after being stolen from, after being a victim even with my vigilance – but I feel responsible for it because I left the house.  But there it is, and there I am.  Just… fuck.