I walked out of the house yesterday afternoon, off to run an errand or two, completely minding my own business, when I happened upon this . . .
It was a rock–one of many, from the looks of things–hurled at an invisible bulls-eye in the middle of my car’s back window.
Score one for the hooligan.
Like any mature, level-headed woman, I took one look, marched right back in the house, and cried.
It’s not like it was the worst thing ever. It wasn’t even the worst act of vandalism against one of my vehicles. Remember Kermie? I woke up one morning to find him and my parents car covered in silly string, obscene verbiage (fashionably painted with Fuschia nail polish, I might add), and maxi pads. Classy.
A decade later, I awoke the day after Christmas to find my driver’s side window shot out. Red Rider BB Gun, anyone?
Three cars, three acts of vandalism. Apparently, it’s a rite of passage for my cars.
So here I sit, willing those rain clouds to keep it together long enough for the window repair man to arrive and fix my window. Just three more hours. That’s all I ask . . . that and the tape holding the plastic in place won’t pull off my paint . . . that extra cash will some how magically appear . . . that they won’t do it again . . . that the grey skies will turn blue.
And another thing, I awoke this morning to find a crease running from the corner of my left eye, down to my jaw bone. It doesn’t seem to want to go away–I’m praying it will. Looking like Scar face will do nothing to help my situation. Although, now that I mention it, it is kind of awesome. Cut my hair short, give me a tattoo running down the side of my neck, some strategically placed piercings–maybe a few more inches in height, and I’d be menacing, to say the least. Let’s see those boys throw rocks at my car then!
Obviously, we’re lucky God didn’t leave the fate of the world in my hands. Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do? Yeah, I’ve still a ways to go with that bit . . .