I can hear you now, "Back so soon?" Yeah, I'm back, and for good reason. I have a shitty, tragic, but increasingly funny as time goes on story to tell you. WARNING: IF YOU THOUGHT MY MOUSE BLOOD STORY WAS GROSS, YOU MAY WANT TO SHY AWAY FROM THIS STORY.

So, most of my readers know that I live in the ghetto. Most of the time, I feel pretty safe, but there has been some vandalism and I have been yelled at from afar for walking too fast away from shady characters. I am not always able to park close to my apartment, which does not please me, since on one occasion, I had a window smashed out. I also have seen evidence of a search in my car. All the contents of my glove compartment end up on the floor, things are stepped on, but nothing is usually taken.

Yesterday, I walked to my car, parked on the side of Third Street and loaded up my laundry. I noticed all my papers on the passenger side floor. I was angry. I walked to the driver's side and got in, only to notice two wires hanging from where my ashtray was. I got worried. In all of my emotion, I neglected to shut the door before I checked to see if the car would start, and it was a good thing I did. When I looked down to grab the handle of my door, I noticed a "substance". A dark brownish-red substance, that, to my knowledgeable-about-blood eyes looked like blood.

I am really proud of myself for not screaming and running back to my apartment, leaving my Salvation Army jeans and K-mart bras to be divvied up amongst the local vagrants. I sat for a moment in sheer shock and then pawed around my backseat for my Armor All cleaning wipes. I bunched a wipe up in my hand, giving me as much of a buffer as I could get and furiously swiped at the stains. When I saw the substance on the cloth, I was convinced that it was blood. I cleaned all I could see on the door handle and the rest of the door. I then shut the door and turned my attention to my ransacked glove compartment. There was blood on my paperwork, but I grabbed it by the edge and shoved it all back in. Even my Wintergreen Altoids had been violated. The parchment inside lay on the floor, leaving my mints to touch the tin inside.

For some reason, I was able to hold it together for the drive to my parents'. I did my laundry, cleaned their bathroom and vacuumed, all without thinking about the stranger's blood in my car. Tina and I went out to see Spiderman 2, and I told my eerie tale to her, and she admitted that I was indeed brave and collected, as she would have never been able to drive her car again.

When I left my parents' house, it hit me. Perhaps it was the Court TV show about the "Hog Trail Murders" or the Robert Ressler book I've been reading, but paranoia hit me. I got a headache. My allergies began to bother me. I became fearful. I knew that when I got home, I would have to park in the business lot, instead of the street, because of how I was feeling (and the fifty pounds of laundry I had to carry in). When I got in, I couldn't keep the story quiet. I sat on Leah's trunk and spilled the story of the bloody smears in my car.

Today, Leah and I made the trip to my Mom and Dad's for sunbathing and steam cleaning. When we got in the car, the sunlight revealed more sinister stains. One on the dashboard, more on the driver's side door handle. I cleaned them as best I could and started the sucker up. While on the way to the expressway ramp, I pulled down my visor on a hunch. There, on the flap that covers the mirror, was still more blood. I pressed my wrist to my mouth, Clay Aiken style. He would have passed out. Leah thought I was going to puke. I was merely horrified.

I steam cleaned the two front seats with my Mom's malfunctioning steam cleaner. All it does is spray soap without water. Fine by me. Then I cleaned the dash and all the vinyl in the thing.

Hopefully, all the blood is gone. What isn't gone, however is the eerie, unsettled feeling I have. The car feels less like mine than it ever has.

Kelly