The other night at work my backpack was stolen from me. The thought on its own is frustrating, it contained my folder, some library books and unfinished homework . But what I felt most ripped from my grasp were the two journals I had in there, full of stories, journal entries, poetry, jotted down ideas. Idea after idea. Kiss and tell tales from Madrid to Mexico. Stories about getting stoned in the park with friends. Love notes to Robert. Those journals were just me on pen and paper.
And you know my first instinct is to find a way of writing about this that will spin it to come full circle and I will have made some insightful observation about the human condition and learned a small life lesson. My friend Simon said it well in his email to me reminding me that “Lance Armstrong lost a testicle, he showed cancer who’s boss.” Iván, the Spanish blogger I can’t read enough of, said simply that this is why he puts everything he writes on the internet. Everything. My roomie Xinthia said she knew exactly how I felt, when she realized someone with access to her personal stories wasn’t quite the person she thought. Shakira having come on my ipod twice right after I found out my bag was stolen, passionately wailed “¿donde estan los ladrones?” her fuck you song to the thieves that once stole her luggage containing her own raw and unpublished work. My friend Aubrey invited me to wash away my frustrations with a beer or three. And Robert, my little Robert, he just said “I’m so sorry babe.” And that’s all I needed to hear.
And yes I am tempted to use any of these different takes on this situation and through some calculated arrangement of phrases, turn this into a happy ending, post my blog and hope for some comment love. But god dammit I’m pissed. There’s some damn crack head out there who has no clue how valuable the bag he probably already chucked is. If they wanted money I would have given ‘em a dollar. If they wanted coffee or a pastry, I would have snuck it to ‘em. Hell if they wanted to get high I would have bought them some damn cough syrup. But unless they wanted to be blown away by the laments, quarries and happenings of a sexually frustrated, love lorn, over thinking, under achieving, self defeating, narcissistic and maniacal queer, Latino named Dugaldo Estrada, than why the fuck did they have to take my bag!