To the Complete Fucking Bastard Who Broke Into My House and Stole My Shit

I hope your dick shrivels up and falls off. If you haven't got one, let's go for kidneys, shall we? I wish you boils, and pestilence, and the whole damn nine plagues (I can't actually wish death of the firstborn on anyone, but I do hope your firstborn becomes an honest and upright cop and hauls your miserable ass off to jail).

The jewelry was my dead mother's. Some of it belonged to various other dead mothers on up the line. The completely unlocked jewelry box that you ripped the latch off of? Sentimental value. I'd take a photo, but, well, it turns out I have no camera anymore. You broke my DPNs. You tangled my yarn. I hope you have a horrible wool allergy and get tetanus.

But more than that, you violated my home. Where I live. Where I sleep. Where my son lives. I look at it and I don't feel safe anymore. You rifled through my fucking underwear, you asshole.

In a week in which I'm supposed to be contemplating my failures of the past year, I'm mostly thinking about finding you and punching you in the fucking face, which is something I normally reserve for wishing on the executive branch.

Apparently I'm not a very good person.

Oh, and also? Fuck you.