Someone Stole My Book

Remember how I said I was going to go back to Edmond Hamilton's Return to the Stars after I finished reading Charles Bukowski's Women? Well... I lied... I started Hunter S. Thompson's first novel, The Rum Diary last night.

My last conscious memory of the book was it sitting on top of my bedside table. Now it's gone. I've searched this entire house, my bedroom, the bathroom, my neice's room, the living room, the dining room, underneath the couches, the recliner, the closet, even the damn trash. I've scoured the basement. Still no sign of Rum Diary.

It's gone.

I haven't been able to leave the house much because my mom has my car (her's broke down). So I know I didn't take it anywhere. There are only two other places I could've placed it: underneath the table next to the recliner, in the living room, or on my desk down here in the basement. But it's not there. It's not here. It's not in my bedroom.

Twenty minutes ago I was cursing like a longshoreman with Tourette's because I couldn't find my copy of the book. I've managed to calm down, but right now the only thing I can think of is where the hell did my book go?