I came down to Tucson because of relatives and my birthday--a relative I don't see often was in town, and mom was doing my birthday dinner to coincide. Dinner was nice, I got an *extremely* generous birthday present from Mom, and it was nice to see some relatives I hadn't seen in a while. But.
On the way down from Phoenix, when I was between Casa Grande and Picacho, my car started to sound like one of the putt-putt cars from Golf'n'stuff or something. It turns out it was just an unscrewed spark plug, but I didn't figure that out until the next day. I wasn't able to get it sorted out that night (it was, by then, after 11), so I left my car at the Circle K near Marana (where I had, slowly, driven it to trying to reach somewhere I could get it fixed). While I was there, this strange possibly homeless lady was being weird at my car, and I didn't say no to her aggressively enough. I think she's the one who stole my wallet.
I got back the actual physical wallet, and *some* of the important contents, but not my driver's license, my credit cards, various other odds and ends, my foreign money and such, and my rock from Jamaica.
In a way, it's the rock that pisses me off the most. The money, the credit cards, even the driver's license had some reasonable value to other people. More value to me, but...the person who stole them at least gained something from stealing them. The rock? Nobody but me cares about that rock. To anyone else on the planet, it's a small, smooth, kind of flat rock, much like thousands of others. To me? It was a reminder of a trip I took, a physical link to a part of my heritage (indirectly, at least), and kind of a luck piece or talisman or something. That rock had been in my wallet since I went to Jamaica well over a decade ago. My loss of that rock was no gain to anyone else. And that just pisses me off.