It's really strange to have something like a car stolen. It seems personal, somehow. I've had bouts of paranoia since last Wednesday when Carmen disappeared, like somebody is looking over my shoulder. Following me. (Remember Rockwell?) Like somebody has it in for C and I. Maybe that guy we cut off last week knows a guy with a tow truck. Maybe the mechanic who butchered our car door a few months ago, leading us to reverse our credit card payment to him, decided to get his money back. Maybe 'they' are watching us. Maybe we are . . . not . . . alone.

When something like this happens, my immediate instinct is to try to make sense out of it by trying to find a reason for it. Maybe it's because the reality of the situation is sometimes harder to accept: that sometimes you are just that person who parked in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's just so random. So arbitrary. And that somehow makes it more comforting and more disturbing at the same time.

link to this | comments (3) | File:  Carmen