Oh...Fuck

It is currently 3:13 am. I saw Wolf Parade at the Variety Playhouse earlier tonight. I wish I could have some really clever, really witty, fucking funny shit to talk about. But I don't.

At 8:00 pm my boyfriend and I parked my car on Sinclair Ave. We saw Wolf Parade and had a fucking great time. By the end of the night, the Playhouse crowd was a hot clusterfuck that smelled like weed (no one shared, thx), sweat, and insert your town here's state fair port-a-potty. People were bumping up against me like some kind of perpetual clothes-on orgy. After the show we ran in April, this really cool chick we know, and invited her to launch fireworks with us. Nice.

Around 12:00 am, with my spirits higher than a kite and a huge grin on my face, I walked down Sinclair Ave, talking with my bf. After awhile he stopped me and said, "Wait, did we park this far down the street?"

Soooo like I said, I wish I could have a funny, awesome story to tell you about Wolf Parade but I don't. Well, I do, but I won't.

Because my fucking car got stolen tonight. You girls don't reside in ATL so no one knows about Little Five Points. It's a shopping/residential area smack dab in the middle of East Atlanta. It's a fucking nice area. So it's like having your car stolen from one of the side streets at the Beverly Center.

My Zune is gone. My planner is gone. My notebook is gone. My H&M purse is gone. All my gift and membership cards are gone. My Burberry umbrella is gone. My radio is gone. My favorite CDs are gone. About $8.00 is gone. My fucking car is gone. And I am fucking pissed.

Sigh...Ay Dios Mio. I know this probably won't help things but if anyone sees a 1999 white Jeep Cherokee Sport with black trim, tag number 908 NNY, Gwinnett County, bumper stickers on the trunk, a Hello Kitty antenna topper, and loose front bumper, please report it to the fucking police. I just want my car back.

I really hate life sometimes.

Deuces,
Erika