If anyone out there sees a meth-head with a 15 inch powerbook G4 in an old green bag, could you please let me know?

Erin called me the other day and asked if I had taken the laptop to work, which I had not. It was stolen from our apartment. I came home, the police showed up and got our information. The whole thing was kinda strange. I felt actually pretty relieved, because I had backed up my data pretty well and locked it up (I think) pretty well, and because Kino had obviously scared the crap out of the person before they could take anything else. I was glad that nobody was hurt, and actually felt kinda lucky.

Still there's the feeling that SOMEBODY was here that shouldn't have been. What did they touch? What did they see? Into this personal space, this physical extension of our private selves, where VAMPIRES can't even come unless invited, entered the uninvited guest. They took something, and they left something. Some trace, which though we can't see, we can feel. I'm sorry for the criminal, who I imagine must be driven by terrible needs, but I curse them too.

I wish Kino would have bit them. But, still, she did an awesome job. I'm grateful to her. I like to imagine the bastard creeping into the study and starting to unplug the hard drives (which they did) when suddenly they hear a low, menacing, primal noise coming from the room next door. More of a vibration than a sound, the thief feels it in his chest (let's make him male). His heart stops for a brief moment as instinctual impulses scream from his nerve endings for him to oh my god run! Flee! Run away you fucking meth-addled, grease-stained evil bastard fuck! FUCK YOU! GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY FUCKING HOUSE OR MY FUCKING DOG WILL KILL YOU!

I like to imagine that. The thief's fear. It makes me feel better. I imagine him running away. Running away and never coming back.