You Must Feel So Violated.

“You must feel so violated!” was the number one response as I reported to my friends, family and co-workers of my recent burglary. After my performance in Brittany Spears’ former mansion, prancing around with boobie bravado in front of Rob Thomas (Dawson’s Creek and Veronica Mars…yes, I am name dropping!), his wife and a smattering of friends I came home to my fondled and raped home. In the ancient language of cat, my little one described in great detail the invasion down to the specific comments made by the perps about the state of my pig sty I call home. Yep, I was robbed of all things of perceived value (computer, stereo, cameras, jewelry etc…) but my response wasn’t to the missing items. Electronics can be replaced, but they touched, pushed and ripped through everything in my home…they didn’t leave anything free from their fingering. I waited 9 hours for our finest guardians of all that is good in Bakersfield to knock at my door to hear, “Yep…they were here for a long time. Here is your report number…” That was it. He didn’t even pull out his rape kit. Nope, just sorry…not sure if others have been violated in your quaint little central neighborhood, this isn’t “my beat.” So, I avoided the retelling of the violation because I just wanted to suppress it, bury it deep…which I successfully did until today. As I stood at my sink washing my dishes I broke down in tears. Those fucking assholes saw how filthy my kitchen was.