see, i have this thing. this nervous habit thing that i do to concentrate. actually, i have a bunch of those.

but.

i have this one that he gives me grief over. repeatedly. REPEATEDLY.

so, what is this thing?

I like to cut up promotional stress balls with an exact-o knife.

is that weird? i didn't think it was weird until the Co-Worker started making comments about how he is scared of me. scared of me? it's not like i am cutting up people with an exact-o knife, i'm tracing the edges of the pictures on the stress balls and making perfect incisions in many sexy designs all over them. i am cutting them in half and in half again, marking them with geometry that you can only see when you squeeze them.

and he thinks this is strange.

and for some reason that i haven't worked out yet, this REALLY made me cranky.

i mean, let's suppose that one day i am in the position to have to perform emergency amateur surgery. sure, it's unlikely, but probably not as unlikely as my marrying martin donovan. so, that ups the chances right there. (note: anytime you want to up the likelyhood that ANY desired EVENT may occur, simply think of something that is less likely to occur than your desired event. this automatically changes the universal ratio of things that are likely to happen to things that are not likely to happen and your event has been pushed up a notch in line. because all events are simply lined up in a big airplane above the sky and when it's their turn to occur they leap out of the plane to splat across the concourse of your life. [nod] that is EXACTLY how life works. [nod] metaphysics? I GOT AN A!)

where was i? OH YES, why my "problem" that makes me "scary" is a good thing.

let's suppose the Co-Worker and i are walking down the avenue to get some vietnamese for lunch. and let's suppose whilst walking down the avenue to get some vietnamese for lunch, the Apocalypse begins. and let's suppose during the course of the Apocalypse, the Co-Worker should get, oh, i don't know, hot searing shrapnel in his ass from an exploding something on the street. since it's the Apocalypse, i think it's safe to assume that 911 would be a bit tied up, plus i doubt the Co-Worker would be able to get any service on his cell phone to call.

at this point, me and my trusty exact-o knife are all that stands between the Co-Worker and a relatively pain free rest-of-the-Apocalypse. it would be up to me to use the exact-o knife to not only cut his DKNY pants so as to be able to carefully remove the material from the surgery site, it will also be my responsibility to gently and swiftly cut around the burn and melted bits of ass flesh to remove them from the Co-Worker's person, thus relieving him from any pain he may or may not be enduring (i am not entirely sure about the complexity of the Co-Workers central nervous system. it may turn out that his brain stem and connected nervous system are not evolved to the point that he can actually feel pain, in which case this entirely line of argument has been brought to a screeching halt. this, too, is something that i can investigate by way of amateur surgery on the Co-Worker.).

in the event that i have to cut out melted bits of ass flesh from the Co-Worker's body, he will be REALLY GLAD i practiced so much on the stress balls. the lower ass-al region (and connected areas) is not a place to run willy nilly with an extremely sharp piece of surgical steel.

i do believe my chances for success are significantly raised by any practice i can get in on the stress balls.

SO PASTE THAT IN YOUR CAP, YOU FUCK.

this all has made me even more tense. i think i'll start straightening paper clips and sharpening pencils to relieve myself, since, at least for the next hour, i am holding a moratorium on all surgical practice.