So, I have these tics, these things I do. Nothing noticeable, mind you, nothing that would make you stop on the street and say, “Hey, man, watch out! That guy’s got a tic!” Just little things, things I do that you can’t see, subtle things.
Like when I get really irritated or fed up with people, I write acronyms. Yes, acronyms. In the palm of my hand. So, let’s say, for example, that I’m working on a design project–a brochure, for the sake of argument. And let’s say the mealy-mouthed, purple-prose-loving client suddenly changes her mind and says, “Oh, you know what, I’m having second thoughts about the cover. What if we just moved all that copy inside and put a big fuzzy shot of my puppy on the front?” This, after we’ve had numerous discussions about the cover and the general lack of space for copy and the irrelevance of a puppy in a brochure meant to advertise modern dance. And as the invisible steam starts pouring from my ears, I take my right index finger, and in my left palm I trace the letters “F-O-Y-C-S-W-A-L-M-D-M-J.” Which, of course, stands for “Fuck off you cum-sucking whore and let me do my job.”
And really, who’s hurt? I get to vent without brusing those feelings she wears so brazenly on her rayon sleeve, and the idiot gets to speak her mind without…well, without her cosmetically altered nose meeting my fist. So everything works out fine.
One day, though, I know I’m gonna snap. So if you’re talking to me and my eyes glaze over and I start tracing stuff in the palm of my hand, you might wanna look around, make note of the emergency exits, and hide any stray cups of hot coffee. Just, you know, in case you’re the one.
