I had just poured myself a cup of coffee.

Three days of peace and tranquility were behind me, and I was slowly crawling back toward civilization.

I was humming.

My mind was pleasantly occupied with important matters. For instance, why does one hand know how to do absolutely everything while the other behaves as though it has only recently been attached?

I had also been concerned about the moral decline of people who cheat on their taxes. Not for myself, of course. I have 23 dependents to think about.

It was a lovely morning. My thoughts were useless.

Exactly as they should be.

Then I opened WordPress.

Have you ever regretted reading a book — which one and why?

My coffee suddenly became inadequate.

Suddenly, I am no longer sitting peacefully in my chair. Instead, I am violently dragged into the dusty, labyrinthine archives of my own memory.

Apparently, we were doing an audit.

I began mentally pulling books from shelves that no longer exist. School libraries. Required reading. Books chosen because I liked the cover. Books everyone said I had to read.

Surely there must be one.

I interrogated my childhood. At some point, I believe the first grade became involved.

And after being unnecessarily summoned through decades of reading, I arrived at the rather inconvenient truth:

No.

Now, if you’ll excuse me,

I was humming.