The Crease, My New Bag, And Snickers

I have a throbbing headache.
Not all-over throbbing.
It is throbbing only behind my eyebrows.
Unlike the rest of me, my eyebrows are holding up quite well under the pressure.
The crease I am growing between them is not.
It is becoming more pronounced.
Botox, anyone?
If I let my eyebrows grow in their natural fashion, then my crease would be almost entirely obscured.
Furry forehead vs. The Crease.
Formerly, this wrinkle added character.
Now it is a character.
Wrinkle "The Crease" Bartel (it gets my mother's last name, as I am blaming her for my crease proclivity).
He is a headache expressionist of the highest order.
I did not hold it against him when I got nicked while he was being knighted by the Queen.
He does hold it against me that, due to his particular circumstance, he cannot use the title of "Sir".
I have been less than sympathetic.
I have explained that "Sir The Crease" has no rhythm to it anyway and that he should have sued his father over his first name long ago. (An employer of mine from six years ago created The Crease, but skipped town shortly thereafter, leaving me as his sole guardian. The Crease cannot legally change his name on his own for another twelve years).
The Crease has always had a thing for important-sounding names.
He used to simply be Wrinkle Bartel.
Once, he begged me to let him be Wrinkle "The Crease" Bartel-of-Cityville.
I said I would only give in if it was Bartel-of-Cityville-by-Lake-Stinky.
He never thinks I am funny.
If he had his way, he would now be known as Sir Wregan "The Crease" Bartel-of-Cityville-on-the-Floodplain (Wregan is anglo-saxon for "accuser", which suits his personality quite well).
I have warned him that his obsessive anglophilia will win him no suitors, but he is stubborn.
Obdurate would be a more suitable description of The Crease.
Why else would he insist on residing so deeply between my brows (technically, in the middle of my brow (singular), since I only achieve two by persistent plucking)?
I may have hit upon the reason for this throbbing headache behind my brow.
It is The Crease's obduracy.
He is decidedly evil and he revels in his evilness.
I dearly hope that he never turns his obdurate nature against my brow.
If he undermines my brow, I do not know how I will cope.
This headache is enough for me to bear as it is.

There is a large black bag by a very reputable company that we cannot sell at work, because it was sewn a little funny along one seam on the inside. As a result, we can't sell it. The company, rather than have us send the whole bag back, prefers that we cut off all the embroidered bits with their company name and send those back instead. Normally, this is done so that no one has to pay shipping on a whole bag that they intend to throw out anyway and so that the bag has holes in it so no one will try to sell it after the logo bits have been chopped off. They weren't counting on someone like me. I, of course, have salvaged said bag from the garbage, and I have plans to doctor its various holes (I've counted three or four of them in total) with homemade patches. I hope I don't manage to make the thing look like a total wreck, because overall it's better looking than any other of my larger bags, and it's big enough for me to hold something the size of loose-leaf, which is what I need right now. Maybe, when I carry it around, I will look like I am seriously learning something. It would be cool to look like I am seriously learning something. I haven't looked like I was seriously learning something in years. No, wait. I don't think I ever looked like that. Even when I was working on my degree I only showed up some of the time and never carried a proper student-like bag. Ah, then it will be a brand new experience looking like one of the seriously learning.

I don't care what the Fiery One thinks, because I am going to publish his response to my e-mail stating that I hated Snickers bars, and I’m not going to ask his permission. Originally, he said he would make sure I ate Snickers bars tonight. I replied by expressing my hatred for them. He wrote back that I was perhaps more a lapsed Snickers liker and less a Snickers hater, to which I responded that, since I have always hated Snickers, wouldn't it be lying to imply that I had once liked them. To this, he e-mailed me the following (it had me giggling so hard at work, and I think a language student from Thailand thought I was laughing at him, poor guy):
What it would be implying is that, at one time, your soul was filled up with Snickers, and that you had a little shrine to Snickers in the corner of your bedroom, which you stole from a Vietnamese restaurant, the shrine not the bedroom, and put Snickers bars in the incense cups, and you replaced the lucky cat with a package of Snickers bars, and you would say a prayer at the shrine every night, but you'd get up at 3:00 AM with a ravenous hunger in your gut and consume a Snickers, and then you'd weep and flagellate yourself with guilt over having desecrated your stolen shrine, until one 3:00 AM you realized there were no Snickers left to sneak, and you foreswore the bar, and worshipped Skittles instead, which you were never tempted to eat, unless there was nothing else and then who cared if you ate all the Skittles at the shrine, because they were just some stupid candies anyway?

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