Tuesday, June 30, 2009, c. 5:30: My laptop was stolen, the laptop I had over 500 TF pictures saved on, as well as 25 pages of my own writings, plus pictures I'd edited. Gone. Stolen right out of my backpack in the linguistics section of the huge Robarts Library.
Gone.
A year's worth of saved work, gone.
Or course, like anybody might, I had always put off backing up my data: "I'll do it tomorrow." "I'll do it tomorrow." And then it wasn't there for me to do "tomorrow".
Is there anywhere safe from thieves? I honestly don't know anymore.
All that fucking work! All those stories - gone! Even if they were mostly fragments, there were some GOOD ones among 'em!

It's times like this I wish I were a lycanthrope or a wereweasel or a were-ermine. Then I could have followed the scent trail from my backpack to the crook, happily eviscerated him, and made him into something productive: a meal! A fig to the repercussions: I'd be ridding society of a nuisance.

Now I'm limited to an internet cafe. I'd use the university computers, but there's no way in hell I'm gonna patronize Robarts Library any more than I have to. They let me down.

This whole mess has got me in a terrible state. At first I was near-mad with anxiety, then angered, then wryly, darkly humorous, and now, after 3 days, depression has set in. It was there before, but now its presence is all the more tangible.
I considered asking for a free picture on The Process forums to lighten my mood, but for once, I couldn't think of anything whatsoever that could do the job, that could encourage me. Nothing.
I know I spent too much time on the laptop, and now I'm suffering from no longer having it. I keep getting these ideas about things to search online on my la- oh yeah, it's been stolen. And then the same thing a few minutes later. It's incredibly disheartening.
I'm going to listen to the last movement of Mahler's 9th Symphony. Already listened to his "Kindertotenlieder", and for once, it didn't drag my mood down. That's not a good sign, though: the songs are some of the most depressing ever written, so when they cease to move me, there must be something wrong.