In which I describe my attachment to office supplies and an umbrella shows me who’s boss.

Paper clips, although shiny, usually don’t kick up any sort of immediate response in me. Emotionally. But this one is better. Stronger. Faster. Well-balanced, light weight, and slightly thinner than your average paper clip. Better. Of course, I don’t want to use it on just any stack of paper. If I snag him, I set him aside and wait for a really good group of letters or a bigger donation or a draft that I’m particularly proud of. Something worthy.

I’m worried that someday someone will discover its superiority and switch it out with a normal paper clip, hoping I don’t notice. I fucking would, you bastards, and I won’t rest until it’s back. Clip thievery is a serious offense, and I’ll make sure that you only have access to the shitty dull scissors and the really thin tipped pens that feel scratchy no matter what you’re writing on.

Thanks for bearing with that.

On another note, I also have to purchase a new umbrella, because on Tuesday night my last one thought it would be hifuckinlarious to make friends with the Northwest Wind and invert the shit out of itself and drag me backwards up Franklin.

I finally snap the thing back into place and the shaft and handle are all buckled and warped at this awkward 45 degree angle under the umbrella top, which, of course, is as loose as a hooker in Vegas, or a belt on Thanksgiving. So I have to hold the metal skeleton of the umbrella top as well as the handle to avoid further inversion. Eventually the bus comes and I don’t need to worry about the rain.

Then Wednesday morning I’m waiting for the bus in the rain again, focusing all of my attention on keeping the remains of my umbrella frame as attached as possible until I get on the bus. And goddammit if that stubborn-ass umbrella doesn’t flip all inside out and upside down and truck me down the street all over again. Lame.

Of course, that drunken bastard Northwest Wind comes over all windy-like and snaps the damn umbrella top clean off and leaves me standing there at my bus stop holding a twisted metal umbrella handle. I whirling-dervish for about ten seconds and challenge the 56 bus sign to a duel. Broken umbrella shafts seemingly do not hold up to the strain of a swordfight. I’m all pissed off and look up the street to watch the carcass of my umbrella top freewheel down Milwaukee and scratch past bikers. Not fucking cool.

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