Should have stolen what was paid for; paid for what was stolen

There are some days in this life when great moral lessons are made plain before our eyes; the sunlight melts the obfuscating nimbostratus revealing heartwarming herds of plump cumulus humilis. Yesterday was one of those days. It all started when with great eagerness I made my way to the nearest movie house. With a comrade I did tread, we weaved among many others who had different aims fueling their wanderings. A few, I suspect, were headed to the nearby Bangladeshi festival to sample a samosa or two, but be warned, those fried snacks of thin breads housing varied contents do not wear well over a long day, best get your samosas fresh or not at all. That was lesson number one.

To the film theater we marched, crossed its threshold and within seconds, in fact nothing compared to eternity, were standing before the automatic ticket dispensaries. We pounded at that confounded instrument, demanding nothing but what exactly corresponded to our whims. "I will have none of your stale, tasteless popcorn!" I thought this thought with great fury, and scowled noticeably so that a teller someways off, if she had noticed, would probably have thought, "I notice another customer is dissatisfied with our terrible kernels, I must be sure to counsel the confectionery team to remain diligent."

In no time we were led to the moment of payment, and to my great shock and dismay, the sum required to view this particular feature was a great many cents larger than I had anticipated: $15 Canadian dollars, a modest number in world currency markets I know, but a considerable portion of my leisure fund nonetheless. I hesitated. Sweat gathered on my forehead and palms, my heart skipped a beat. All of a sudden, the complete expanse of it, I knew what I must do, I pressed 'Accept', swiped the magnetic key which controls the gate to my inconsiderable treasury, and was dispensed a ticket, thereby guaranteeing my entrance into the theater. And so some time was spent watching Bruno, and it sucked. Sigh. And I sighed in regret, tears of disappointment streamed down my cheeks in my imagination, and I prepared for the waves of disgust which would wash over me in the coming days. $15 dollars spent for a commodity worth (I made the calculations in advance of this post) - $0.39. While Baron Cohen certainly does have a fine pair of buttocks, admirable cheeks indeed, I could find little else in the film to justify the great expense paid to view them. And so hands buried in my pockets, head sunk into my neck, I kicked stones bitterly as we made our way home.

What happened next I struggle to explain. My sense of injustice grew and grew, overwhelming my reason. I was blind to order, to coherence. Up turned upside down; the leafy branches of trees plunged into the earth, their tangled roots shot into the sky. Birds wiggled underground, worms flew like Chinese dragons in the air. At noon the moon shone bright, at midnight the sun climbed high. Though I admit it's only an excuse, in my confusion, I thieved something I shouldn't have. I downloaded an album, Bitte Orca by the Dirty Projectors. My greasy hands grasped it electronically, it took no time at all. For a moment I felt justified, as though I had set the world in balance once more. Bruno stole from me time and money, so I stole Bitte Orca to return my world to its equilibrium. Then I listened to the record. I realized soon enough that I had made a great error! My second that day! I should not have stolen this provocative and beautiful record. I should have paid for it.

My second lesson yesterday, the first being the importance of eating samosas only when fresh, was that two wrongs sometimes do make a right. Now I merely need to determine before hand what I will enjoy, what is good for my heart and mind, and from this vantage either pay for or steal accordingly. It's so simple.