YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE HOW MUCH IT ROCKS ME
I'm addicted to the song "Black Betty" by Ram Jam at the moment. I know that there's a little window at the bottom of the page that can let me say that, but I don't think that would get the point across. I LOVE this song. You know that's no lie.
The other day someone broke into my car.
I was chatting on the phone with my parents as I walked to my car. The jazz band concert at Widener was that night, and I had given myself enough time to get to my car and drive there.
"Huh," I said to my dad, who was on the phone with me at the time. "I don't remember scattering everything in my center console all over the driver's side floor."
"Are you sure?" He asked.
"Yep. Also, I don't remember rifling through my glove compartment. Or breaking that tiny window in the back. I'll be honest, I think someone broke into my car."
"Is anything missing?" He sounded concerned, but genuinely curious. I was, too.
"Let me check." I leafed through the papers on the floor, picked up my coffee cup holder, my cassette tape of the Ohio Players. I reached over and checked to see that my insurance card and registration were still there...
"SON OF A BITCH," I said, loudly enough to alert my father that I was irritated.
"What? What'd they take?"
"NOTHING," I said. I slammed the glove compartment closed. "EVERYTHING is still here. Even my autographed copy of the original Jackson170 album."
"That's great," he said.
But it isn't. This sends a very clear message to me--
Hobos, drug dealers, and helpless drifters don't think my belongings are worth stealing.
The other day someone broke into my car.
I was chatting on the phone with my parents as I walked to my car. The jazz band concert at Widener was that night, and I had given myself enough time to get to my car and drive there.
"Huh," I said to my dad, who was on the phone with me at the time. "I don't remember scattering everything in my center console all over the driver's side floor."
"Are you sure?" He asked.
"Yep. Also, I don't remember rifling through my glove compartment. Or breaking that tiny window in the back. I'll be honest, I think someone broke into my car."
"Is anything missing?" He sounded concerned, but genuinely curious. I was, too.
"Let me check." I leafed through the papers on the floor, picked up my coffee cup holder, my cassette tape of the Ohio Players. I reached over and checked to see that my insurance card and registration were still there...
"SON OF A BITCH," I said, loudly enough to alert my father that I was irritated.
"What? What'd they take?"
"NOTHING," I said. I slammed the glove compartment closed. "EVERYTHING is still here. Even my autographed copy of the original Jackson170 album."
"That's great," he said.
But it isn't. This sends a very clear message to me--
Hobos, drug dealers, and helpless drifters don't think my belongings are worth stealing.