Finely crafted by skilled hands, life can be used as a weapon against your enemies. Curating enough skills and money to best the opposition is the goal in life, is it not? Whatever your opposition is, I mean. We can’t all be important enough to have a finely dressed villainous man rueing the day we were born to light a fire under our ass, sadly.

But it would be nice, wouldn’t it?

_You’re insane, _you say. Hear me out, though:

The will to push through and succeed in life is fueled by need. The need to live comfortably, to make a name for yourself. To _not_ be the guy who gets impaled by life’s sharp stick in the middle of a Monday afternoon.

Meet Carl. Carl’s not important enough for a mustache-twirling nemesis, but he’s got plenty of opposition:

His landlord, who hikes the rent every time Carl blinks.

His boss, who thinks “team player” means “guy who works weekends for free”.

And lastly, neighbor’s yappy chihuahua which Carl swears is plotting his demise.

Life’s sharp stick has poked Carl so many times, he’s practically a pincushion.

Today, though, Carl’s had an _epiphany_. He’s in the break room, microwaving his sad ramen lunch, when he overhears two coworkers plotting to snag the promotion he’s been grinding for. They’re younger, flashier, with teeth so white they could signal planes. Carl’s been at this job for a decade, filing reports so dull they could sedate a bull. But he _needs_ that promotion—new apartment, maybe a car that doesn’t wheeze like it’s auditioning for a hospice.

So, Carl decides to weaponize life’s sharp stick for once. Not with violence, mind you—he’s not _that_ unhinged. No, Carl’s plan is pettier, _sharper_. He starts small: “accidentally” forwarding an email chain where Flashy Coworker #1 calls the boss’s new strategy “dumber than a bag of hammers.” Then he “helpfully” leaves a printout of Flashy Coworker #2’s expense reports—$200 on artisanal coffee counts as “client outreach,” right?—on the boss’s desk.

By Friday, the break room’s a warzone. Coworker #1’s crying in the bathroom, Coworker #2’s screaming about betrayal, and Carl’s sipping his ramen broth, looking like the Dalai Lama of office sabotage. He’s winning. Finally, life’s stick is finally poking someone else.

Until Monday. Carl strolls in, ready to charm the boss, only to find a new email: “Team Restructuring.”

The promotion’s gone.

Budget cuts. Worse, his little email stunt? Traced back to his login. The boss isn’t mad, just “disappointed,” which stings worse. And the chihuahua? It chews through Carl’s doormat that night, leaving a turd shaped like a middle finger.

_Shit_.

Life’s sharp stick, man. You think you’re wielding it, but it’s always aimed at your back.