I'm not crying, it's just been raining. On my face.

Let's review. I'm sitting here, shivering in the glass-covered passenger seat of my beloved Volkswagen Bug, huddling away from the rain pouring through the permanently open window, taking inventory of the Things Which Are Lost Forever. This list includes my GPS, so I'm trying to figure out how to get home on my god damn original iPhone which can't find my current location (I dropped and broke my 3G two days ago. That's right. This week is bullshit). Home is a New York town I hate, where I sleep on a pull-out couch in a space so tiny there's no room for anything else. There's a boy driving me home and sneaking pitying glances at me, but we don't know each other well enough to feel comfortable in this ridiculous situation so I almost wish I was alone. How the fuck did I end up here? I'm supposed to be winning the ANTM auditions right now, dammit.

Things I understand have value, and therefore can't be mad were stolen:

1. My GPS
2. My gorgeous black pea coat
3. My zebra print shoes
4. iPod charger
   

Things that definitely do NOT have street value, and therefore I'm furious about being stolen:

1. ALL MY GOD DAMN FAVORITE SHIRTS, which I brought into the city to have options to wear to remind Tyra that I'm indispensable. They're not expensive, but I loved them. My pretty black flutter-sleeved shirt from H&M. All the tank tops that make me look thinner. My brand new cardigan, which makes me look 10 years older. Fuck.
2. My favorite skinny jeans.
3. My brand new Victoria's Secret lotion, blow-drying hairbrush, and magic hair products.

Things that for some reason were left behind:

1. My Juicy sunglasses (thank God).
2. My John Varley library book.
3. My 15-page ANTM application.
4. 1/2 of my iPod adapter (they ripped out the cord and took that with them).
5. The fucking brick that was thrown through my window, breaking my gear shifter in the process.
6. The picture of me and my friends from 2 years ago. I wonder if the fucker looked at it, saw what a nice girl I am, and felt a tiny bit guilty.

Seriously, you know what pisses me off the most? My car's a piece of shit. It's scratched up beyond belief (I'm a woman driver, nuff said), the front bumper's falling off, there's dents all over the place. Someone, years ago, was enough of a dick to scratch up my "World Peace" bumper sticker, leaving only a dismal reminder of my naivety. Why the FUCK would anyone break into this car, of all the cars on that godforsaken East Village street? Why would they be like "Oh, here's a girl who doesn't have enough money to reattach her bumper, let's see if she's got anything of value"? And who the hell are these people, who do this? Okay, crackheads, probably. But god dammit. Go break into a BMW, you fucker. LEAVE THE POOR VW DRIVERS ALONE.