Dear Mr. Drug Head,
You don’t know me. You don’t know anything about me: how hard I work each week to get what I have; how much I have been through and overcome the last few years.
I didn’t have your usual grab and dash, quick pawn cash items that you normally steal from people’s homes. So, you took the tools I was using to renovate my home and repair my life.
I guess your need to get cash, so you could fund your addiction, was greater than my need to hang drywall and cut Hardie board. By the way, you broke a window in your search for something to take. Pollyanna would tell me to look on the bright side; at least you didn’t lift my paint…
Some would try to argue that you’re strung out and don’t know right from wrong. I warrant that you do know right from wrong. Which is why you entered my house, after we left that night. I know you didn’t get up early the next morning and burgled. Dopers sleep late.
You took everything that you can sell quickly. And I’m trying to be charitable towards you. So, if you come back, there’s no need to go in the house again. Nothing will be kept there. I’ve learned my lesson the hard way.
I’ll leave a bottle of water on the porch for you. Don’t forget to take all your pills at one time.
No blessings from the Exile’s Kitchen.