Right now, I’m passed blood boiling. Hell, I’m way passed blood boiling. I’m practically to the point of being in the market for some thugs who are looking for a fight. And I rarely condone murder. I’m taking peace and conflict studies, for pete’s sake. But the circumstances might just call for a little old-fashioned problem solving.
My ass of an ex sold my camera. I’m not talking about a digital camera that I could replace at Walmart. I’m talking about an almost 30 year old Nikon that Father took all f my childhood pictures on. Taking pictures on that camera once it was passed to me is what made me appreciate photography.
After we broke up, as a show of good will and my desire to remain friends (as we lived across the street from each other and had a lot of mutual friends), I let him continue to use that camera until the end of his photography class. That class came and went and he still hadn’t returned my camera, despite several pleas for it.
Then one day, several months later, I’m innocently sitting in my dorm contemplating if I want to snack on SunChips or popcorn when I get a call from a friend suggesting that I check my FaceSpace. When I get on I’m greeted my a message from said friend with a link to another FaceSpace picture. (Isn’t it lovely how we use the internet?) In this picture was my ex-ass with the camera I love so dearly draped over his shoulder. At first I was relieved. I had heard rumors that he sold it, but this said to me that is was still in his possession. Upon further investigation, though, I learned differently.
He said, as plain as his lack of skills in the bedroom, that he sold it. For $15! An almost 30 year old camera that was still in perfect working order. For $15! Not only am I pissed as hell that he sold it, but I’m embarrassed at his stupidity for not getting more for it.
I’m furious. Beyond furious. Livid. If I wasn’t so angry I would realize how heartbroken I was. Every important moment in my childhood, from my trip to Disney World to my sixth grade graduation to the first and only horse show I ever competed in, is marked by Father pulling out that camera, posing me in front of a door or a tree or a Barbie impersonator and snapping picture after picture to be mailed off (snail mail, of course) to the relatives. I guess that explains my love of all things old-fashioned. From my small typewriter collection to writing postcards to newspapers and books over websites and Kindle. That camera was a part of it and now it’s gone.
I have a right to be angry, damnit! He stole it from me. He stole a part of my childhood. So I’m going to get it back. And while I’m at it, I’m going to hurt him just a little bit. Call me a vengeful bitch, but he deserves it. After this and all the other things he put me through since our break-up, he deserves a reality check.