Blogthreat! Take That, Giant, Faceless Corporation!

So, yes, as you might have read, I got robbed last weekend. Classic B&E. Crowbar to the door and the deadbolt never stood a chance. Near as I can figure, the thief was only in a house a short while, took what he could grab quickly, and split. (And he was, according to Sweetpea, a he. Short-ish, balding, ruddy. Psychic Cindy sees it all.)

I've heard it's common for victims of robberies to feel violated knowing that a stranger was in their house, rifling through their possessions, and making off with the best of it. Perhaps strangely, I'm not getting that feeling. Sure, I mind that someone pried my door off its hinges and ransacked my home, depleting it of its valuables the way a piranha devours the flesh of a dead and waterlogged antelope. Of course I mind that. I'm not at all comfortable with that. But I can sleep at night. My bed is still my bed. I don't get any heebie-jeebies on the back steps or in the bedroom closet where dude did most of his raiding. No, what's really putting the pit in my stomach as I walk through my house, now days after the burglary, inventorying for the insurance company all the things that used to be there and that I'm asking them to replace, is how bad I'm going to get robbed again. Ball's in your court, State Farm. Don't let me down.