The Tyranny of the Inanimate

I have been waging war against inanimate objects for years, never quite able to shake the idea that most things are endowed with a silent but powerful intelligence, destructive and most assuredly hostile.  The usual enemies are can openers, car doors, computers, shrink wrap plastic, etc, but the latest villain was the shiny foil seal on a seemingly innocent plastic bottle of low dose aspirin.   The most I can hope for in these ongoing battles is a draw - I generally lose and am forced to be content with their subsequent  annihilation whenever possible - but in this instance, the aspirin emerged victorious.

The child proof cap yielded easily enough but the foil seal proved more durable.  I exerted a mild pressure, then a little more, and when it still wouldn't give, flew into a rage and grabbed the nearest sharp object - a long bladed kitchen knife - and stabbed at the seal with all the force I could summon.  The foil gave way instantly but I was too furious to simply accept the win and stabbed a second time (to teach it a lesson), missing the plastic bottle entirely but connecting lightly yet most solidly to the first finger on my left hand.  It was a nick, hardly painful, but it bled like a son of a ....well, it bled profusely, through a cold compress and three bandaids.  An hour later the finger was numb and stiff, after two hours it was swollen to the size of my thumb, hot, red and throbbing.  Revenge seemed called for so I emptied the undersized little pills into an envelope and took the plastic bottle out to the driveway, laid it on the concrete, and slammed it repeatedly with a brick until it was flat and dead.  Each slam was a blow for freedom, a strike against the tyranny of the inanimate.  I pounded til I was out of breath, til sweat ran into my eyes, til there was nothing left and I could barely lift the brick.  Sometimes you have to be the insurgent force, rebelling against the oppression at all costs.  And sometimes you just have to be an idiot with a temper.

The following day, as Doc treated and dressed the wound, he scolded me mildly, wanting to know if it had been worth it.

I thought of that plastic aspirin bottle with it's stubborn silver seal.

I thought of my finger, bandaged and beginning to heal.

I thought of my temper.

I thought of the satisfaction the brick had provided.

But mostly I thought it'd have been more satisfying if the bottle had bled.

So naturally I smiled and assured him I'd learned my lesson.

But I kept the brick.  Hell, yes, it was worth it.