First off: I’m going to be posting on Tuesday and Friday morning/afternoons/when I get to it during that 24 hour period (I promise).
Many of you will be sorry to hear that the birdcages I ordered (from my latest post I Wish I Didn’t Have A Body) were STOLEN. That’s right. Thieved. Snatched. Lifted. Aladdin-ed. Hoodwinked by a hooligan. Gone. My birdcages are gone. This isn’t, however, a tragedy because, dude, they were $15, but still it was not a pleasant thing to discover.
I was looking around the mail room of my apartment building for my package because the oh-so-lovely FedEx tracking device had told me it had been delivered and signed for – BUT it was nowhere to be found. Eventually, I gave up. I was minding my own business, trotting up the stairs, when I noticed a pile of helpless, mangled cardboard in the corner of the stairwell. I picked up the remains of this appropriately sized Amazon package and thought to myself Dear God, what kind of a maniac – and then I remembered I’m in Los Angeles where there are lots of maniacs who would do such a thing. Anywho, it was my package. My name was written all over it (well, like on the label, ya dig?), and part of the order was left inside (a bag of 30 vintage keys – don’t ask yet, I’m going to craft with them).
I left this note at the scene of the crime for whomever the thief may be:
I was voted “worst handwriting” in my 8th grade mock elections. I have about 30 people that’ll back me up on this. Oh – and this isn’t me being self-conscious, this is me bragging (yet again).
Obvi I contacted my landlord. They reviewed the security footage, and it turns out someone broke into the building by keying the door open. So yeah, this was a real crime. They reported it and such, but really there’s no hope of getting my birdcages back. If we’re being real, I’m now far more concerned with some strange man lurking through the building than a box being stolen. My landlord is working on fixing the locks.
To be honest, I just hope the person who stole them gets what they were looking for, and ideally the birdcages end up in a nice home. I hope they make someone happy, and I hope that guy finds a sandwich or some cash or whatever he was looking for (I really hope he’s okay wherever he is).
Regardless, all of this distracted me from the sads. Thanks, birdcage thief.
The second part to this post also regards eliminating the sads. See, I went on a date. I know what you’re thinking: too soon. I understand, I do, but I disagree. You have your opinion, I have mine. Don’t worry, I’m tactful. I even told puppet-monkey about it, and he was happy for me (you haven’t seen the last of puppet-monkey, although now I am promoting/demoting him to “monkey.”)
Now, this date was with a nice fellow who moves furniture by day and acts by night (or something like that?). This is right up my alley folks. I liked this, in fact I loved this. Actors are great. I think I’m hooked on em’ now.
BUT he was a stranger, and stranger = danger. This isn’t 1998 where you can carelessly get picked up by a date, and the days of being 16 years old with my Father to intimidate such a stranger with a sawed-off shot gun are long gone. No, this was a real live stranger that I was going to have to navigate a date with.
He did, however, invite me out for the least slutty of all dates: an afternoon event. He told me it was a surprise, and so I played along. It was a stormy, windy day this weekend, and the power went out. I took this as a terrifying omen that I should probs not be going out. There was only one thing all of this could be trying to tell me: murder. More specifically, my murder. This stranger murdering me murderously (I think you get the picture).
So at least I wanted to be sure to dress the part. My roommate/manfriend helped me make the decision. I tried on three dresses: a red dress, a blue dress, and a floral dress. We determined the red dress said “murder me,” and that the blue dress said “murder me quickly.” The flower dress, on the other hand, seemed to say “torture me slowly, then murder me and bury me in a shallow grave.” If I were to be murdered – which because this was a stranger seemed very likely – the third dress seemed to be the most appropriate. I’ll explain….
Despite the fact that I’d be subjected to torture, sure enough he’d bury me in a shallow grave where he would assume I would blend in with my surroundings (because the flower pattern would blend in seamlessly). I, however, had the utmost confidence that were I to be murdered then buried in a shallow grave on this date, my manfriend could identify my body because the pattern was distinct enough.
My roommate/manfriend (in case you forgot: Bye 2015, See Ya Never)
Once again, this is where my brain carried me. Anxiety provides both caution and unnecessary terror. It assumes the worst in people, while my heart assumes the best (most of the time). It’s a very conflicting situation going on inside of this Anna. I do my best to be rational and mindful of it – which is a difficult process because a large part of the time anxiety is irrational.
When this stranger-danger date picked me up, I resisted the temptation to take a picture of his license plate and send it to my manfriend in case something did go awry. Instead, I trusted that it would be okay (because mostly I trusted the moving company so much that I assumed his background check was probably pretty thorough, but also because I need to learn to trust with caution.)
P.S This date took me to a play called “Deathtrap,” a play about murder. That’s right, my ol’ instincts aren’t too shabby after all. Good on you, Anna, good on you…