You've no doubt had your eye on my house for quite some time, and why wouldn't you? You've seen the Bud Light cans we throw in our unmowed grass. Your eyes have caressed the length of PVC pipe we use for a banister, leading to our porch with the curling white paint. And you know it's all a ruse, that this thousand-square-foot bungalow is home to treasures beyond your most meth-addled dreams: a vintage 32-inch TV circa 2002. Our Target bath linens. Three IKEA bookcases. A Tiffany bowl etched with a corporate logo filled with caramel Hershey Kisses. You've seen these jewels in your mind's eye, and you've lusted for them forever. And now that you've noticed my six-foot-five Australian husband has gone on a business trip for two nights, you're rubbing your palms together beneath my window, cackling, "Now's our chance!"
I want you to know I am ready.
First of all, I don't know how good your view is from the bushes, but I'm willing to bet you can't appreciate how ridiculously jacked I am when you see me eating cookie sandwiches in the kitchen all night. Cookie sandwiches = muscle fuel. Don't believe me? Go ahead: break the glass panels of my front door with your bare elbow, grope around the left side of frame until you find my keys hanging from their Hello Kitty lanyard and let yourself in. It's only when you're within fist's range that you will realize how terrifying/beautiful I am in my red, over-sized 1996 YMCA Mock UN Assembly T-shirt: beautiful in that you'll want to ravage me, but terrifying in that you'll stop and think, "Is it worth having my dick ripped out like a cork from a wine bottle?" I promise you, it is, but that decision is one you and your urologist will have to make.
So I'm jacked and I'm armed. I'm sleeping with a carving knife on my nightstand; it's right next to my cell phone so that I can call 911 when you break in. (If you're lucky, the cops will get here in time to save you.) Is it dangerous to keep a knife next to a phone I spend half the night groping for in the dark because it doubles as my clock? Yes, but that's just the kind of crazy I am. That I'm halfway through my second bottle of Riesling does you no favors. I've also seen, like, five Bruce Lee movies.
And even if you do manage to overpower me (which you won't, but let's just pretend for giggles), if you do so much as bruise my hulking biceps with a dead arm, my husband will find you. Did I mention he's Australian? Have you seen what they do over there? That guy's been strangling grown dingos with his bear hands (that's not a typo: I swear to god, he has bear hands!) since you were playing Oregon Trail on DOS. So go into the backyard, turn on our barbecue and throw yourself on it. Save him the trouble; he'll be tired when he gets back.
I know you had big plans for pawning my silver monogrammed bracelet from Things Remembered. I know my five-year-old Mac laptop would have gotten you enough black-market money to treat yourselves to a post-burglary dinner at Qdoba. But look, I just don't want you guys to get hurt, OK? Do yourselves a favor and turn to your right: the old lady who lives alone in that house has a three-piece corduroy living room set. Sure, it's covered in cat hair, but I think you'll agree that your lives are worth more than the cost of a lint brush.