To filch, or not to filch.  Sometimes, the right choice is not the sweet one.

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The other day, I pulled into the lot at work and parked, as usual.  I got out, fumbled blindly for a pack of cigarettes and slipped one out, as usual.  Butt to lips, flame to tobacco, and I began to smoke my first cigarette of the day while I read a couple pages in my novel-of-the-week, as usual.  It was a Tuesday, so several garbage cans were out by the road, waiting to be picked up, as usual.

I was engrossed in my book (as usual), when I heard a vehicle pull to a stop nearby. 

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Earlier this evening, I was headed outside for a cigarette.  I grabbed a paperback book to take with me, to read while I poisoned myself.  I didn’t really look at the book until I got outside, since it was in the spot where I last remembered leaving my current book, and it looked familliar.

So I get outside, and sitting on the porch . . . is the book I’m currently reading.

I look at the book in my hand, confused, thinking to myself, “How’d I get two copies of the same book?”

It took a minute, but it finally dawned on me that:

• The two books were not the same book
• I’d just finished reading the book in my hand 2 days ago
• The book on the porch was my current book

I’d left the one on the porch because, although I’d brought it out with me on my last smoke break to read while I poisoned myself, I was too antsy to read.  I had a lot of stuff on my mind and I couldn’t concentrate on the book, so I just put it down.

And forgot about it.

. . .

Oi.

I’ve probably said this before, but I’m going to say it again:

I REALLY HATE BEING INTERRUPTED.

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No, this is not a rant about the Buffalo Bills.

This one’s for ma hunny.

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