Time for a Wednesday confession.
Okay, who remembers my story about the third grade? Remember Mr. Jones and my bad influence friend named Sara? The one who convinced me to do things like cheat on tests for her and steal?
I’ve come here today to talk about stealing.
I don’t condone stealing.
But I do find it to be somewhat satisfying in the right situations.
For example, in the third grade, I was pretty satisfied with the candy and gum I stole. I mean, I ended up with a giant Ziploc bag full of candy and gum – how could I not be happy with that?
(I still also feel guilty about it, to this day.)
So after my brief stint as a real thief, I moved on to being an out-of-spite thief.
Remember my roommate from hell?
When I moved out, I stole one of his spoons. I know that sounds minor, but for someone as neurotic as him, I know that having a slightly incomplete set of cutlery would be rage-inducing. It was a small, but meaningful theft.
Also, if I’ve ever worked with you and you’ve been awful to me, I can guarantee that I’ve taken something off your desk, whether it’s your favourite pen or your stapler, and “misplaced” it.
(If it was a pen, I kept it, because I love pens.)
So what I’m trying to say is that over the years, I’ve learned that if it weren’t for my insane conscience,* I probably would have become an art thief.
*I should probably take this moment to formally apologize to London Drugs in Jasper Gates for the month they experienced an unusual shortage in Bubblicious gum.
**Because I’m just assuming that if I were a thief, I’d have a body like Catwoman. Right?