Epic Struggles of the Suburban Loser.

I'm not what you'd call a hairy man. My eyebrows are starting to take on that wiry, british admiral "what what I say" quality, but that's about it. But I have this single, jet black hair on the back of my right hand. It's about a quarter-inch long. It's pretty much the only hair on either of my hands, other than a sort of peachy fuzziness that is only in evidence when I'm taking off bandages. It's driving me crazy. I only ever notice it at work, under these lovely lights. I have a knife, but I use it to cut boxes and packing straps, so it's not terribly sharp anymore. So every day I stare down at this little hair, and I think "When I get home. I'll cut you off when I get home." And then I get home and promptly forget. Memories of the hair go down the drain, along with every value-less, trivial and horrifying thing that happens here. I purge it out, and in so doing forget my appointment with the hair. And then, the next day, when I'm booting dbase or standardizing a list, and the lag sets in and my eyes wander, I look down and there, there sticking out like a stinger that has only glanced the surface, there's the hair. Fuck.