I used to write poetry during math class.
Yeah, really. All my lighters.
Really, being a writer, I don’t own much else of value. I wish I was there to see the looks on their faces as they ripped apart my manila envelopes entitled “Important Papers.”
I bet they hoped to find bank statements or maybe even my home’s deed. Yeah, right. Instead, they found stacks and stacks of old poetry.
And I can just about imagine what ran through the burglars’ minds as they sifted through my fancy “idea box” resting upstairs on my wooden desk, tossing aside bits of paper with random scribbles:
Phone queue purgatory
Feuding with black widow
No experts in social media
“Where’s the (bleepin’) money!” they scream. “Who the hell is this chick?”
Then, they spot it. The single drawer in my bedroom’s nightstand. Yes! they think. Maybe we’ll find money or jewelry in there.
They yank it out, turning the drawer upside down, only to find nothing but journals and pens, condoms and lube. Furious, they spin around and leave it on the floor, the condoms crowning the unwanted rubble.
Yea, you know it. We writers still need our “muse.”
Perhaps they stole my computer, but really, I got the last laugh. Lesson learned? Burglars beware! You should NEVER break into a writer’s home.
MY QUESTION TO YOU: If burglars broke into your home, what would make you wish you’d been there, to see their faces?
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