One cannot walk through a populated cubicle farm while carrying a pizza -- even a small one -- without one in five (or more) wanna-be-clever sheeple making some comment about it.
- "Can I have a slice?"
- "Oooooh! Pizza!"
Congratulations. You can read two-syllable words now.
- "Did you go get pizza?"
No. It's raining out. Some college kid brought it to me. And I tipped him, too. Note: I spent two years as a tactical meal deployment engineer. To this day, people that won't tip a delivery driver cheese me off.
- "You got Minsky's!"
Captain obvious strikes again.
On being OCD
Some background: My work and most of the things I do for a hobby require a procedural mind, one that can find a way around perceived limits. One that sees a fun challenge instead of blind acceptance and frustration when the word "impossible" is muttered. As such, I tend to make puzzles of efficiency or thoroughness out of simple life events.
Case and point: My wife accuses me of not washing my hands often enough. While this admittedly may be true at home, I am extremely OCD about the ritual (not the act!) of washing my hands at work, particularly in the break room (where people are constantly cooking and eating their food) and the restroom.
In my mind, my procedure seems completely logical. The bathroom is one thing, but I'm pretty sure the break room is just as clean if not more so than my own little corner on the sixth floor of this faceless bastille. Ostensibly, I realize that this has to look very, very odd to anyone who happens to witness even half of this process yet it remains a strangely innocuous -- no -- "mostly harmless" habit of mine.
Denki Groove - Niji
Suicide Commando - Hell Raiser