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Last night was BK. After church, I noticed I had missed a call. Turned out to be a friend who called to make sure I was still going. He said to just swing by his apartment on the way and we could ride together.

I get to his apartment complex and walked up to his door and knocked. No answer. I knock again. No answer. As I’m standing there I noticed that his grill was gone and wondered what happened to it. A little puzzled to where he might be, I head back downstairs to go to my car and call him. That’s when I look up at the building next to him, see his grill and realize I had gone to the wrong apartment. What’s funny is that I’ve done this before, but the last time I had a plate of cookies and a strange guy answered the door. But what’s sad is that I’ve been to his apartment MANY times before, so I should have known better.

But it gets worse. We head over to Tracy’s for BK. We’re driving down the street and find the house number painted on the street. I park, we get out and I walk up to the house and ring the doorbell. We’re standing there and no one comes to the door. While we’re waiting, we notice that it really smells like cigarette smoke outside her house which didn’t seem right. We quickly realize that we have gone to the wrong house. I just assumed I knew what house it was, but never really looked that closely at the house number.

My friend was a little worried if I would make it home. I plead sleep deprivation.