To the man who stole my duffle bag

Congratulations, you are now the proud owner of

Today's Edition of the New York Times:
Bush is still trying to link the war to Sept. 11th/Al-Qaeda/terra, and that's getting far past the point of anoyance isn't it? I'm not going to assume you don't read the newspapers. I am no bigot, you could be some sort of gentleman bandit, and the copy was free to me, so, by all means, enjoy it. Educate yourself.

One Pair of broken Headphones:
I really don't know why I don't throw those things away.

A One-dollar pair of sunglasses:
Those sunglasses have lasted longer than any dollar pair of sunglasses I've owned before. I was curious to see how far they would go. Pity, but quite alright. My gift to you.

The Power Cord For A University-Owned Apple I-Book.
I'm responsible for the loss, of course. About forty five dollars. It's going to hurt, I'm not going to lie. But than again, don't you just wish, (Oh don't you just wish, don't you just fucking wish you God-damned tape worm!!) Careful Joshua, you are not a vengeful man. But anyway, you didn't get the laptop, and I know you know it was in the bag not one hour before you swiped it, and this satisfies me,

My red notebook:
The public-access drafts are safe. I had taken them and the labtop onto the donation floor at NABI to get some writing done. And oh by the way, the laptop is safe as well. The notebook costs two dollars, in case your wondering. But, the thing is, I'm a writer you see. You probably didn't think that many writers go to the plasma bank, but quite a few of us do as a matter of fact. We're a dime a million. I had left my bag with my newspaper and my headphones and my power cord and my notebook and my sunglasses sitting under a chair in the waiting area because my hands were already full with the laptop and the scripts. Damned foolish of me, I know. should have waited until I was seated and tapped before I started writing, that way I could have kept the computer in a bag and brought the whole thing with me to a safe place. So you now have several chunks of manuscript, rambling ideas, first drafts. Do you like to read? Feel free to go through my notes since you have them anyway. I have this story, it's about a rancher in the Nebraska Sandhills who dies alone on a cold night when he realizes his insignificance. Common stuff I know, and really not any good, not yet at least. I think if I polish it over a couple of more drafts I really might have something. In the meantime, enjoy it if you can, and good luck trying to trade fifty or so pages of underdeveloped ideas for meth.

Why do I assume you do drugs? . It's your risk/reward radar; you don't have one. Yes I did call the police, I have a warrant out but that's okay. I'll go to jail as long as you go too. How else did you think I would react? What did you expect to find. Do you really think I would have forgotten my bag if I had anything valuble in there. (Like a laptop say?) Did you expect to find money? It's not a purse. I do the traditional hetero-male thing and keep my money in a wallet. I don't know if you have some sort of vision disorder, in which case all apologies, but no, it's quite clearly not a purse. You really would have to be something of a, you know, fucking moron, to expect to find money in the bag. So yes, your's was the act of a desperate fiend who tells himself to believe what he wants to be the truth.

Dan and I spent last night planning for the show, writing, and discussing our insecurities, and it all seems so foolishly pessimistic now. We're doing quite fine. I assume you bought a bag with your blood money. Do you have enough to get you through a Friday night, were you expecting to?

So yes, enjoy my work and my stuff. The lady who saw you, who described you to the cop (couldn't help but notice that he treated me with a lot more respect once he found out I was a university student and not just another extended hand. It's not right I know but, anyway, how does it feel to know that your hand will always be extended?) didn't get your name, pity. But she did describe you as something of a shorter version of me. 5-8, medium-long sandy hair, blue eyes, no mustache though. I have a feeling we will meet, and if I find out that you threw away my notebook in some alley when it proved of no use to you, I swear to Christ I will fucking, I don't know, I am not a vengeful man.