Thursday, December 21, 2017

On Matt Damon, and the Dumbass who Fired Four Bullets Into My Apartment

Will somebody give Matt Damon a cookie and a pat on the head so he'll quit whining about how insufficient praise is being showered upon men who aren't sexual predators? I'd do it myself, but I'm too busy systematically going through my apartment complex thanking my neighbors who did NOT shoot four bullets into my apartment Sunday morning.

…. oh, yeah, that happened too. Sunday morning around eight o'clock, Jeff and I were wrenched out of a sound sleep by four VERY LOUD banging sounds in quick succession. I groggily figured it was kids playing with firecrackers (the “fireworks superstore” is closer to us than the nearest full-service grocery) so I put my head back on the pillow and was almost asleep again when Jeff came in and told me to get dressed since he had to call the police.

Come to find out the shooter was Jason, who is either the fiance or husband of the woman whose apartment door is across the breezeway from my own. (He was her fiance when I first met and made small talk with him last year; I don't know if they formalized their relationship since then. For her sake, I'm rather hoping not.) And, for what it's worth, Jason wasn't shooting at my door, but at one or two people standing in front of it. The first of many cops who visited my apartment Sunday morning said that one person was hit and taken to the hospital—and also added that Jason did apologize for the whole incident.

One bullet cut through a support post on the metal shelving unit Jeff and I set up next to the front door; I think that's the slug Jeff later found (alongside a thoroughly shattered spatula) in the plastic chest of drawers where we store extra kitchen utensils. There's a biggish hole gouged out of the wall behind that shelving unit. Jeff had kept a pair of his winter gloves on top of those plastic drawers; one fingertip of one glove was blown off. Further away from the door, down the hallway leading to the three bedroom/offices, are three additional bullet holes: one on either side of the doorframe of the first bathroom, and one puncturing the door of the linen closet at the end of the hall. (Much later, after the cops and detectives all left and we were cleaning up the paint chips, plaster speckles, drywall fluff and other debris, Jeff discovered that a bullet had also gone through a free-standing floor fan, too.)

I spent a few morbid minutes investigating the bullet holes and thinking what those bullets would've done to me had I been walking down the hallway or into either bathroom at just the wrong time: “Okay, so, this one would've taken one or both my legs below the knee, that one would've gone through my uppermost thigh but maybe would've been survivable if it didn't hit a major artery... uh-huh, this would've been the kill shot.”

I suppose Jeff and I have to turn in our civil-libertarian decoder rings, since we waived our right to demand a search warrant before letting detectives into our apartment to photograph the bullet damage and collect evidence (the detective took the one bullet Jeff found, plus metal fragments from where a bullet nicked the shelves).

So anyway, ever since Sunday there's been a new topic added to my conversational repertoire; if you want to be uncharitable, you can label it as “Waaaah, somebody fired four high-caliber bullets into my apartment and now I'm all complainy about it even though Jeff and I are physically unhurt, waaaah.” But not until reading about Matt Damon's problems did I realize how selfish I've been: for all my complaints about the guy who fired bullets through my home, I never once thought to thank any of the many fine people who never did any such thing. And I want to rectify this now, starting with Matt Damon: thank you, Mr. Damon, for meeting the absolute bare minimum decent-responsible-person standards, especially where I personally am concerned. I actively admire your non-felonious tendencies.

And for anyone else reading this: if you hear me complain about the guy who fired four bullets into my apartment, it would be perfectly reasonable and downright expected for you to respond by saying “Hey, Jennifer, if you're gonna bitch about the guy who fired those bullets, first you need to praise me for being the sort of person who does NOT fire bullets into people's homes. Remember: when you talk about problems you experience, your focus is supposed to be on me and my virtuousness, and thus far you've really been dropping the ball, you horrible self-centered person you.”

Thank you for not trying to shoot me, everybody. I really appreciate it, and I'm sorry my selfish focus on me and my bullet-point problems distracted me from who the real victims are here: good people like you and Matt Damon, both of whom were unjustifiably unpraised by selfish women who foolishly thought they were the ones having problems, here. 
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