More from the Unfit for Society Files

Those of you me know I am impressively hirsute; thus, it should not surprise you that my stubble regenerates at an alarming rate. I'm sunglasses and a track suit away from playing Russian Hitman #2 in the next Jackie Chan movie.

As such, it shouldn't surprise anyone that when I found myself with a date tonight, I brought a razor and shaving cream with me to work; a quick shave at the end of the day will go a long way toward making a good first impression, thus allowing me to reel her in with my repertoire of philosophical rambling and movie quotes. So, into the murse they go, and off to work I go.

The rest of the morning is as normal as a day right before a holiday full of indecisive weather can be: I ride the train, ride the shuttle, read some Pynchon, talk to the shuttle driver about her psychotic lodgers. I hop out at my office building, still bland as ever, run over to get a bagel from our local corporate bagel chain, and head on upstairs, bagel and lunch in hand, murse over my shoulder.

"Oh," I think, as the cab draws me up to my floor. "I need to get my badge out so I can get through the security door."

So I reach into my bag.

And something bites my finger.

I think a few swear words, wonder aloud (as the doors open) what the hell could have done that (my keys?), and pull my hand out...which is now turning red from the cuts on my finger.

It turns out grabbing a Mach 3 by the head will do a number to your flesh.

For the record, I'm fine; I had an exciting morning involving paper towels and three different co-workers giving me the Band-Aids that were not in our criminally understocked first aid kit. All that's damaged long-term is my pride, and possibly two small divots in my right index finger. But I leave this note here as a reminder of how much I, theoretically gifted and intelligent, can well and truly suck at life.