There's been an outbreak of burglaries in my neighborhood lately--or "burgles" as I like to call them to add some humor to the somewhat intimidating possibility of an intruder. I live in a nice, low-key neighborhood with a relatively ridiculous property value. Burgles are not welcome here. The guy down the street had his house broken into while he was on vacation, and when he returned--before he had time to get his bedroom window repaired--the fuckers came back while he was home sleeping. He pulled out his rifle and took aim, but they ran away. Likely with a brownish stain gracing their assular regions. Then another house on the b-lock had something stolen from outside, etc.
As a result, we've made sure to turn on the motion detectors in our backyard as well as the 10,000 lights on our front porch every night. And we have the 3-dog security system also known as the Yapper 3000.
This little situation has also prompted me to seriously evaluate whether or not I could kill someone.
I was faced with this same question, in a much more serious way, several years ago. When I was living in North Carolina (alone) I rented a house (ok, trailer) on a culdesac, across the street from a cop. As you can well imagine, renting across the street from a cop made this single gal on her own feel significantly better about the hood. That is, until I met the cop's grandson--cokehead fucknut asshole. His real name was Chris. Chris was hopped up on a number of illegal substances and took a liking to this sassy then-blond. In fact, he came over high as a kite one night and offered Sherrie and I lapdances (scary thought if you could only see this guy and pretty fucking hilarious otherwise). That was right before he asked me, with bated breath, if I was a virgin. As the newly devirginized, I would've normally responded with an enthusiastic NO I'M NOT! But the creepy factor was a tad high for gloating right then. This incident scared the shizzle out of me, but I was able to get the fuck out of the place for a few nights, and I returned with the expectation that he would not remember this incident and would leave me the fuck alone. Especially after the then-boyfriend came and stalked around in broad daylight to make his presence known and pee on the porch posts, mark his territory, yadda yadda.
However, I was wrong (not the first thing I was wrong about in NC). Chris returned the night I came home. He pounded on the door at close to 10pm as I was innocently preparing for bed. And pounded. And pounded. Until I yelled, "I'M BUSY. Go AWAY." I promptly peeked out the blinds to see his skanky ass stalking around the back of the culdesac property (toward my back yard and back door which had no curtains over it, because they don't make curtains for back doors of trailers).
I fully expected for the druggy asswipe to come barrelling through my back door, so I promptly turned out all the lights, grabbed a glow in the dark flashlight, and secured the perimeter. I stalked through my house in utter darkness, flashlight at the ready, heart beating 90-to-nothing, adrenaline oozing out of every pore. And in that moment I knew I'd kill him (or die trying) if he came into my house. I actually found myself wishing I had a special weapon in my possession. My cousin built a beautiful solid maple baseball bat in high school shop class. It was polished to an impeccable shine and would've looked great right then with cokehead fucknut asshole's grey matter all over it.
I'm not a violent person by any means. I am however very territorial and have an explosive temper when I'm livid, and being scared to within an inch of my life REALLY pisses me off.
Moral of the story: don't break into my house. And if you hear that I made the front page of the paper, you were ahead of the news this time.
Listening: "My Old Friend"...John Hiatt