The Papercut Apocalypse: Barry vs. The Memo

Barry had always prided himself on his stoicism, a carefully cultivated facade he maintained through stubbed toes and lukewarm coffee. But then came the fateful morning of the HR memo. It wasn't the content that shattered his composure (it was about updated parking regulations, utterly unremarkable), but the edge of the paper itself.

A microscopic incision, barely visible, appeared on his index finger. Barry stared. The world seemed to tilt. "Blood!" he whispered, a dramatic tremor in his voice. A single, almost imperceptible bead of crimson welled up.

His internal monologue went from "ouch" to "am I going to need stitches?" to "what if this paper was laced with something?" in approximately 0.7 seconds. His office neighbor, Susan, looked up from her spreadsheet. "Everything alright, Barry?" she asked, already bracing herself.

Barry clutched his hand to his chest, his face a mask of profound agony. "I... I've been paper-cut!" he gasped, collapsing theatrically into his ergonomic chair. "The pain! The sheer, unadulterated agony! Tell my wife I love her, Susan! Tell her... tell her I fought bravely against the forces of bureaucratic stationery!"

Susan, who had witnessed Barry's 'sprained ankle' (a mild calf cramp) incident last Tuesday, merely sighed. "Barry, it's a papercut. I've got a band-aid."

But Barry was already too deep. He was drafting his will in his head, mentally composing an epic poem about his heroic demise by memo. He'd even considered phoning for an ambulance, just to get a proper "trauma assessment." The thought of the paramedics gently wrapping his finger, their eyes full of admiration for his bravery in the face of such a minor wound, was almost too much to bear. He let out a pained moan. "The paper! It's *still* there! Haunting me!"

Susan pushed a cartoon-themed band-aid across his desk. "It's a unicorn, Barry. It'll make you feel better."

Barry eyed the band-aid, then his finger, then Susan. He pondered the existential dread of a world where paper could inflict such terror. With a final, dramatic sigh that could power a small wind turbine, he gingerly applied the band-aid. He leaned back, utterly spent. "The scar," he announced solemnly, "will be a permanent reminder of my ordeal."

Susan just went back to her spreadsheets.