I was looking around my house today, evaluating my stuff.
This was primarily motivated by the fact that we were about to have a major appliance delivered, and whenever there are delivery people or workmen about to come into my house, I wonder vaguely whether they got into this business so they could case houses for their primary business of robbing houses, and I look around my home and think about whether, if I were a house-robber disguised as a skilled laborer or delivery person, there is anything here I would bother to come back for, under cover of darkness.
This is a part of my general paranoia. When I was little I convinced myself that it was plausible that a robber could get caught in my house by surprise when we came home, and be sneaking from hiding place to hiding place for weeks. For years I checked behind every closed shower curtain before going to the bathroom, just out of habit.
Casing my own joint today, I thought that even though I have "a lovely home," and a wonderful embarassment of riches, it's not what you'd call robber-worthy. Almost everything (with the exception of this appliance, which was just delivered by two kind men who even set it up for me even though we didn't pay for that) is used.
I started thinking about the time in my life when I didn't buy anything new. I shopped exclusively in used record stores, used book stores, and thrift shops. It hadn't yet been packaged as 'recycling' or 'repurposing' or 'keeping it out of a landfill.' It was cheap. And so much more of a stalking adventure, to dig through a disorganized mess and come up with a gem, even if it was scratched/falling apart/didn't fit. It was only $2!
I still shop in those places, but not with the same fierce loyalty. I still love the cheapness and the weird people there, the unique stuff you find and the way it makes your self, and your home, a true representation of you, and not something anyone would bother coming back to steal.
This is not me. But what a perfect ambience, right?