When I was younger I used to steal things from my friends.
It wasn’t something I did for the usual reasons. Like, I never stole things because it felt dangerous or because I was seeking attention. I never wanted to get caught. In fact, it was the opposite: every time I would get home with whatever I had stolen—a plastic bag full of baby doll clothes, a ring left on the edge of the sink—I would close the door to my room and feel like the most awful thing in the world. Half the time I never even looked at the things I had taken. I would stash them up high in my closet or squeeze them between my mattress and box spring.
So, no. It was never that it felt good to steal. Not even in some sick masochistic way. It was that I wanted what I had stolen so badly. So, so badly.
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