He sat at his desk the morning following a nights-long bender, looking upset.

“What’s the matter,” his wife asked, “Hungover?

“Not at all,” he answered, “I wrote an entire novella last night.”

“But you looking like someone died – I’d think you’d be happy?”

“You’d think.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“I wrote it all over my desk.”

“Well, then transcribe it.”

“I would – but I don’t know what order the words go in!”

One thought on “Out-of-Order”

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