The Thing Behind The Wall

As I was staring at my computer screen in comfortable stupefaction today, I hear this on the other side of the cubicle wall:

"Woah. Dude! Look at my pants!"

This really should have been enough of a cue for me to slip on the headphones and tune out whatever kitty-corner horrors might be happening. But, alas, I have that same morbid curiousity that slows traffic and kills cats. Here's how it played out:

Voice 1: "No, seriously, look!"
Voice 2: "All right, all ri...Whoa! What is that?"
Voice 1: "Freaky, huh? Look what happens when I do this..."
Voice 2: "Heh. Gross."
Voice 1: "Now I need to figure how to clean it up."

So, um, disturbing. It could have been anything. A sub-trouser cyst. Some sort of pupae, insect or otherwise. Nascent self-aware tissue. A mustard stain shaped like the face of Smiths' frontman Steven Morissey.

I had to know.

Turns out it was just a little sphere of ballpoint pen ink that the guy's stain-repellent pants wouldn't absorb. It was rolling about, mercury-like, until it fell and stained the carpet on the floor.

So, yeah. Sometimes it's better not to know. A life of imagined facts, while often more disturbing, might at least be more interesting.

Comments

[the wife]

Is that why you never want me to tell you how my day went?