If my sis, Sharyl, were currently connected to the internet in her state of post-move, she would probably fill a page or so lamenting on the state of her first weekend in the city. As such, she doesn’t and probably won’t. So, needless-to-say, when I get a phone call just moments before I’m about to call it quits for the day, little sister in tears with a smashed-in car window on the second story of her parkade, I am too quickly reminded of my own experiences of such.

What was the point?

When all is said and done, though, it’s only a window. A small bit of glass that can be replaced. The sense of security takes a little bit longer, that feeling of violation that haunts one’s dreams. My recommendation is to become connected, emotionally, to as few inanimate objects as possible. Disassociation. Linear mental clarity.

We wrapped the new gap in a combination of cardboard, plastic, and electrical tape. And the car is resting in my garage.