Bitch-Ass Junkie Mother-Fucker

I am hurt and shaken and something is different about me now.
First, I stood up for myself in my office. I saw a battle brewing and I picked and it's not outside the curve to think that I won the argument. I am going to just pretend that I thought it was over if it comes up to management.
Saturday night, my purse got stolen in one of the most disturbing ways imaginable.
I chased him down to try to kick his ass but all I really got was this lousy aching entire-right-side of my body when I tripped and fell. I did jump a fence all action-hero style and didn't fall but I drew the line at running in front of oncoming traffic and that's when he really pulled away from my grasp.
So my friend was in town for a super-short visit and we sat on the couch and crocheted and bitched and generally talked about sex for a long time. That part of the evening was awesome. Then, I got the really great idea to get some food.
Fucking dumb-shit. What was I thinking?
So we went to the same baja Mexican chain that you always see Nick and Jessica eat at when they are in Texas, ordered margarita, water, and some chow. We went out to sit in the Arizona room, which for those who are unfamiliar, it's a screened in porch. This particular one is all windows and doors that can be opened in the springtime.
I left my friend to go inside and get some chips and salsa for us. As we munched, we bitched some more and I told her about another friend who doesn't like vibrators because what's a late-night snack if you don't throw in some vibrator-talk.
I mean, duh.
Well, this dude walked in and I was a little aware of him because he was behind me - way behind me - but I have this thing where I am greatly disturbed when I sense someone is behind me and could hurt me.
So that's exactly what he did.
He lurched forward and grabbed my bag and started running. In that minute, I registered everything - his jacket, his shoes, his skinny, junkie legs and studded belt. I'm sick thinking about him because right now, I feel grossed out by the whole thing. I feel violated and paranoid and angry and vengeful and it is all directed at him. I even went out riding around the neighborhood the next moring, really early. I put a hammer in the pocket of my hoodie just in case and I rode over to where a cop found my bag, sans wallet and prescriptions.
That mother-fucker was watching me from the minute I walked in the bar. He watched me pay, he watched me sit down, he watched me get chips and salsa, and he watched me engage with my friend and then he broke the trust that we have with the world that we can get some food and eat it and then go home and have drink with neighbors.
He broke that trust and broke up my visit and he broke into my zone, man. Fuck him, fucking junkie-ass bitch.
I am sure that he didn't think a fat girl in heels was going to start screaming profanities and chasing him. I couldn't stop myself. I was completely functioning on auto-pilot to defend my stuff. I had to force words out of my mouth and I remember sounding like an injured cow because all I could get out were low, loud gutteral combinations of "purse", "stop", and "fuck". I know I had a lot of "mother-fuckers" during the scene.
So he runs out of the Arizona Room and I run after him. I chased him across a patio where he jumped a fence so, fueled by the fire of a thousand female victims before me, I hopped that fence like a trained little monkey, screaming profanities all the way. Even in the moment of chasing him, I knew that the fence jump was pretty fucking cool. He fell when he jumped the fence - I didn't. It was hard - he was just out of grasp, you know? Like I felt that if I was 5'6 instead of 5'2, I would have had him and not really cared about broken nails or ankles. I kept feeling like I had him and then he'd be gone.
After jumping the fence, the chase was faced with six lanes of traffic on a major Tucson street.
Fucking junkie.
He was spilling out the contents of my bag as he ran and I don't know if this happens to many people but I got to see my birth-control get thrown out of my bag and into the street and run over. I mean, really. How many people have experienced that kind of two-pronged fear? Even IF I could have gotten to see CrushBot, I couldn't have done much with that imagry of Ortho Meets Truck burned into my brain.
After what felt like finally, I did not run across six lanes of a major street but turned and went to the bar.
Which was a whole lot less fun than it sounds. Because the vile whore behind the bar didn't pay a lick of attention to the bloody, heaving, hysterical patron WHO RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER FUCKING FACE.
Yeah - sidenote? They didn't even hold our food back to keep it warm or bring us a margarita or anything. The vile whore was flirting with one of the officers and asked him if he needed anythng to eat and I might have killed her dead right there and dealt with the consequences, had I not been in a state of shock.
A really nice bartender stepped up and took me outside where he realized that chasing the dude with me and going all fucking Bounty Hunter was not going to do anyone any good.
He did flag down a cop, who was like, 19 and a total mounth-breather. He was also surprised when I told hm that the dude was a white junkie.
My seething rage was barely able to be contained when that comment popped out of his pasty face. "Oh, yeah? Huh. A white guy."
The cop wasn't very nice or anything and as we walked cross the street, he offered no comfort whatsoever. He kept telling me to get out of the street but he wouldn't go to pick up my stuff, either. In fact, he sent my friend and I into a dark ally to ID my sunscreen. Officer Dullard? It's mine. As is that lip-gloss, those glasses, that lip-gloss, the compact and the other lip-gloss over there.
Anyway. The guy got away with my wallet. Officer Dullard found my bag and I let him know that my wallet and prescriptions were missing, at which point he gave me a lecture explaining that I could be issued a citation with regard to the way I carry my meds.
Again, actually for the third time in the evening, I experienced a homacidal ideation.

I'm tired and ragged. I'm bruised and angry and impatient. I am sick of two people treating me like a four year old at work. I made it through a graduate program and two jobs before this one. I think you can lay off a little because first of all, I know how to prioritize and second of all, you are making me a worse employee. Your treatment leads me to not really care about what I do because it's not going to be correct enough and it's not going to be anything that you'll thank me for. Why would you when I fuck everything up or when it's just not good enough?
Shit I want to go home.
At the same time, I don't want to go home because that junkie freak has my address and I heard gun-fire and the Ghetto Bird last night and I don't feel really all that good at home, what with not sleeping and worrying about getting robbed and/or shot.
Which I NEVER worried about until last night.
Send money.

arizonasarah at 7:36 a.m.

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