It’s not paranoia if they really are out to get you.
They are out to get me. Just today they tried to glue themselves to my legs, and succeeded in a few spots. So now this pair of pants is dead, because there’s a WHOLE lot of death-sticky almost-super-glue all over them. Sat down to completely gut and rearrange my portfolio, and I only got as far as opening the damned bottle of glue before I made a total mess of it. What’s more, this glue apparently eats the finish off of hardwood tables. Guess how I found THAT out?
Well, that pair of pants turning against me isn’t a big loss, they weren’t really my friends anyways. They were old, bulgy-button-fly, and have tattoo ink all over them. Yes, they were still useful…until the glue… but they were not the best. However, some rather respectable blue jeans of mine proved to be plotting my demise last night, and rather publicly at that. Somehow, it gathered up a whole bunch of stickers (the pointy kind) when I went out to my car at work. It didn’t tell me it had picked them up, oh no, not until I was in the office in front of people. And even when I first sat down, they still hid from me, so I did my reference hunt on the computer and everything. I lean forward to get up, and they come out like ninjas, stick me right in the ass, and I am sure the way i jumped it looked like I was either totally batshit crazy or had just sharded. Thanks, pants.
Based on what are now multiple assaults, I have concluded that my pants are out to get me. Remember that short story, “The Body Politic” by Clive Barker? Just like that, but it’s my pants.