There’s a saying gets used around here: “Death by a thousand papercuts.” It’s what you say when the spouse comes home, and asks how the day has gone with X number of small people running about; or, alternatively, when you ask said spouse how the day has gone at work.
“Death by a thousand
papercuts.”
A papercut isn’t so bad,
after all—they sting, and some of them bleed a lot (which can lead to yet more
unmentionable horrors, like doing laundry) but on a scale of Thing I Can Handle,
where one is “Breezin’ Right Along” and ten is “Fingernails Shredding as I Hold
on For Dear Life,” a bad papercut is about a 1.5. Nothing that a band aid can’t fix.
But the trouble is that
many days, papercuts don’t come by ones and twos but rather by the score. And at a certain point comes one that, like
the straw that broke the camel’s back, is Death.
At which point there are
two things one can do: lie down and bleed out (metaphorically!) or laugh. Because, when you think about it, dying by a
thousand paper cuts is a really, really silly way to die, n’est-ce pas?
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