Last year my car was broken into. I lost my backpack (ouch), my iPod (bastards), my writing composition book (rotten, dirty, little thieves), and a small leather book into which I had journaled my life for four years (if I ever catch you stupid, greedy, little @#$#s, you will regret the day you ever saw my car).
The good news is I'm not bitter.
You probably know this story already. I've been whining about it for a year to all my friends/family/pets/random people who will listen. And I suppose that you know me in some sense or you probably wouldn't be here reading this.