I came home yesterday to find that someone had ripped open a package and stolen the contents. The jerk stole my stun gun. Great. How am I supposed to defend myself with cardboard?
I had ordered a stun gun after reading a recommendation in this article about a female jogger in West Seattle reporting an attack. I filed a police report and kicked myself for not selecting my work address as the delivery point.
I’ve been looking for something to keep with me whenever I do a late night show and they are all late night shows.
I think about my safety. I am a woman, I am out late at night. I’m a big target. I’m sure thugs could spot me easily, this short woman who clearly has exercise DVDs but never uses them, unless there are special features like the belly dancing twins who danced with swords!
After the crowd clears, the walk back to my car is dark, dimly lit and I am most often alone. I park as close to the entrance of a club as I can. I pay for parking if there are no spots close by. I’ve asked other comics to walk me to my car.
It sucks that I have to even think of it: the crime that might happen when I’m trying to make the world laugh and the crime that actually happens in front of my door.