I was about 22, so this was around 2010 in the heat of my poorest and most kleptomaniac stage of life. I was a desperate musician that had a chip on my shoulder large enough to validate fucking over other people in the name of my momentary comfort.

I had just gotten done "shopping" at Target and was crossing the parking lot toward a silver Honda Tribute that I thought was mine. I stuck the key in the lock and turned. clink Mindless automated motion into the driver seat. Raise key to ignition. Wait. Something smells unfamiliar. I don't recognize the rubbish papers in the cupholders. These seats don't quite look right. This is not my beautiful wife.

I could have just gotten out and walked the three spaces over that where my identical car with identical door lock sat, coincidentally. I could have intelligently responded to my genuine shock and leapt from the bizarro caro and scrammed the hell out of there before any number of people in Uggs, toting totes, spotted me.

Nope. Instead I did the thing that would lead me to writing this here a decade later; I sniffed around and found a GPS in the center console (2010, remember?).

I took it.

I walked fast but naturally but hurriedly but inconspicuous but all-together assured of my eventual damnation to my car. The one that isn't the imposter car.

I did end up using it to navigate a tour for my band.

Doesn't excuse my actions.

I feel pretty bad about it.

And here we are