We were robbed.

My roommate called exactly halfway through my workshop, during break, and right before I was due to have my newest piece critiqued. I sat back down and said well, I just found out I’ve been burglarized, so the worst thing you can say about my writing is going to pale in comparison.

They came in through the back door and took a couple things of mine, but not the most important things. For that I am strangely grateful. Instead of lamenting what is lost I am spooked and paranoid about what could still happen, what is always in danger of happening.

That, and I’ve confirmed what I suspected all along: my cat is a terrible guard dog.

The police came and the locksmith came, and I sought refuge in a trip to Target, a dinner of mac & cheese with tuna, and beer, in exactly that order.

At a bar on the south side I watched the rain turn to snow. Coming home, I climbed the ramp onto 35W, suddenly acutely aware of the lateness of the hour, calmed by the new snow and driving slower than usual to avoid slippage and to better appreciate the Minneapolis skyline rising on my right. The usual drive home slowed and was thrown into sharper relief by the snow, the time of night, the day’s strange events.

I’m a lucky devil.