Someone has removed all the clicky buttons from your clicky pens. Your descent into madness is surprisingly swift.
You rummage through your drawers for a pen that isn’t there. You claw fruitlessly under your desk, hoping in vain a smooth, plastic, spring-loaded cylinder will find its way into your hungry fingers.
Convinced your pens are all gone or deactivated, you struggle to hold back the tears. Bob is in the next cubicle over, and you know that he uses the same brand of clicky pens as you, but you will not enthrall yourself to the whim of Bob today or any other day. You are too proud to take his blood pens.
Clicky withdrawal sets in and you begin to sweat. You do your best to find a clicky salve, some sort of snapping methadone to ease your clicky jonesing. The latch on the file cabinet barely registers to your fingertips. The spring-loaded power button on your computer isn’t much better, and you’re pretty sure you’ve done some serious damage to the hard drive by turning it off and on twenty-seven times.
“The stapler!” you shout madly. You grab your Boston and swing its jaws open, placing your thumb on the chromed interior. You click for what seems like only a brief moment, breathing in heavy, ragged gulps of air like a pervert on the telephone with a stalking victim.
Your desk is covered in un-crimped staples.
Bob slowly stands to peer over the cubicle wall. He notices the drool coming out of your mouth and the glazed-over look in your eyes and sits back down slowly, believing you will not see him if he makes no sudden movements. He’s been bitten enough for one pay period, thank you very much.
Bob throws a clicky pen over the cubicle wall. He feels awfully guilty about being an enabler, but he’s got work to do.