So, last night I got off work fairly early (The Armory shuts down at 5:00 PM on Sundays,) stopped at Ruby Tuesday's for some chow on the way home, put the top down on the Beemer for the remainder of the commute, and finished up the evening on the porch (surprise!) enjoying beer, cigarettes, and a book (Heinlein's Citizen Of The Galaxy.) As the fire in the outdoor fireplace burned down to embers, I prepared to go upstairs to bed. My downstairs neighbor politely reminded me that he'd be starting his new workout program at Oh-dark-thirty in the morning, and we should probably shuffle our cars in the driveway so that I wasn't blocking him in.
I got up to move my car, and tossed my empty cigarette pack into the fire (note: this becomes an important plot device later.) We juggled the vehicles, and I toddled off upstairs at about 10 PM. I got a phone call shortly after arriving in my little apartment, and retired to the bedroom to chat, and... and... well, I must've been tired, because I opened my eyes, and I was lying on my bed fully clothed, complete with ball cap, boots, and 1911, with a cell phone in my hand, and the clock insisted that it was 3:47 AM. Swell. I padded down the hall to the smallest room, then grabbed a Diet Mountain Dew and sat at the computer to see if anything was shaking on the 'net. Hm. That drink hit the spot... Let's chug another one... Great, now it's 4:10 AM and I'm wide awake. May as well wander out for a cigaret... wait... where are my cigarettes?
A search of the apartment turns up nothing, except an empty pack that I must have left lying about as a decoy when I was in a particularly sadistic mood. Maybe I left them downstairs on the side porch? Grabbing an LED flashlight, I sneak about on the porch so as not to disturb my downstairs neighbor by waking his dog. No dice. Maybe in the car? Nope. Nada.
Realization slowly dawns through my sleep-deprived skull that there are no smokes in the house. Worse, I'm now blocked in, and my neighbor isn't due to wake up for another hour or so. Festive. The fact of being trapped makes things even worse: I'm one of those folks who can get intensely claustrophobic if her car is in the shop. I once had a boyfriend playfully suggest tying me up, to which I responded "If you ever tie me down in any fashion, you'd better have a way of untying me from about two counties away." The sense of confinement was driving my blood pressure through the roof. Wait! I don't need the car! I have the Ninjette! I can... ...not ride it because of the coolant leak.
By this point, I'm pacing like a caged animal.
Then, after one of the longer hours of my life, comes the sound of heaven's gate swinging wide: my neighbor is pulling out to go to his morning work out. Salvation! I'm off to the local inconvenience store. I stroll in and snag a Starbucks Doubleshot out of the cooler, and the nice lady at the counter asks "Will that be all?"
"No, I need a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights 100's in a box... ...more than you could possibly imagine." The monkey on my back chitters in happy agreement.
Christ, this reads like a LiveJournal entry, doesn't it? I feel like I should add that I met my friend Suzi at the mall, and make some catty comment about her outfit or something. Oh, and maybe share a cookie recipe.
[music| U2, The Joshua Tree]