The quiet ones are the ones with bombs and knives. The quiet ones will break your heart and not even care. The quiet ones are the ones in the back corner of the room, not really saying anything, but watching you just the same. The quiet ones are always the ones that are thinking. Thinking about what? Thinking about everything. They are calm, contemplative creatures that would kill you, given the chance. The quiet ones are the ones that attack you from the front while you're watching your back. You have to watch out for the quiet ones.

I would like to answer to that, since I, myself, am a quiet one. Most of the time anyway. I am quiet simply because I have nothing important to say. I sit, think, and absorb information. This doesn't necessarily make me a serial killer. I have simply noticed the more I talk, the more I hear laughter. At me, not with me........

........and that makes me mad...yeah, you think that's funny, huh? You're so cool. You and your damn girlfriend. She thinks she's so hot. Maybe she is, but she's an arrogant bitch. Just like you, hot shot. And your friends. You all make me so......angry. Really...angry. I wish you would just...just.......

...uh, where was I? Oh yeah. I'm just quiet, that's all.

So I'm making oatmeal one morning recently, and I'm going to have a banana with it. I select one of the five suspended from my banana holder, have a nice breakfast, and go off to work.

There, I pass many hours struggling with an apparent memory leak in Oracle[1] and dealing with the fire alarm or three that appear daily, occasionally interrupting myself with thoughts of Edward, sex, the foggy day outside (later, the sunny day outside), November lumber futures and December corn, Edward, sex, Everything2, and sex. Some of these things have sad aspects to them, and provoke self-pity, which I wallow in for a few minutes and then return to work.

As I realize often, whatever I consider to be my troubles, others in the world have much bigger crosses to bear.

Upon arriving home, I am greeted with a scene of horror the likes of which have been conspicuously absent from my relatively sheltered life. The kind of thing that one is never prepared for; that only happens to other people.

Self-destruction. The Final Exit. There, hanging by a thread, necks lolling at a macabre angle, all four of the remaining bananas lay partially on the counter, a thin strip of their outer skin the only connection to their stems still entangled in the hook; one was completely severed. Inches away, the mango protested its innocence. The potato across the sink agreed, its eyes having had no choice but to take in the whole ugly mess[2]. Looking at the scene, it was clear to me that this had been a group action undertaken by the bananas.

Why? we always ask, knowing that any answers can never be certain. Had they seen the end that that delicious Giant Cavendish had met at my hands that morning, and decided among themselves that there was no point in just waiting for their own turn to come? Could this be the latest sign of the epidemic use of Prozac, Zoloft, and similar SSRI antidepressants in the U.S.? Some might even suspect yet another cult had met its grisly end.

Regardless, it had to be dealt with. I respectfully re-covered the exposed flesh of the victims, and placed two of them in the refrigerator. The others I ate, slowly, honoring and cherishing them, though I had known them hardly at all. After all, they still had appeal.

[1] Actually, the memory leak was in DCOracle2, an Oracle interface for Python.
[2] The potato part is totally made up, just for the silly pun. There was no potato in my kitchen that day.

I recognize that my treatment of this odd episode as a suicide may be hurtful to someone who has had a real such loss in their life. I extend my apologies and sympathies to you, but I also find it humorous.

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