Love among office supplies was a tricky thing.
At least, the stapler thought so.
Sometimes those who came to visit it were too big, forcing its jaws too far and stretching its staples to the limit. Other times they were too flimsy, little slips of nothingness that confounded the stapler's efforts. The stapler hated those the most. It hated tearing into that delicate, fibrous, flesh, and finding it too thin to bear its mark.
It watches its staples being pulled out of those pages with something like regret. The staple remover mocks it with pointy, grinning, teeth.
But sometimes, more often than not, now that it's owner has figured out what the stapler can and can not tolerate, the stapler is fed things that fit. That work. That satisfy its purpose and its need.
Moments like that, when the stapler can bite into a thick, sharp, stack of paper, make it remember why it wanted to be a stapler in the first place. After all, paper clips don't get to feel the meaty flesh of the paper yield to their might. And tape is rarely used on the thick stacks of hot, wet, paper - the stuff that's just come off the presses and is ripe for the taking - that the stapler so loves.
No, the stapler thinks, life can get no better than this - biting and breaking and tearing and chewing on the crisp white sheets fed to it. And sometimes, rare but often enough to make it quiver with anticipation and snap its springs with desire, sometimes its owner will pull it open. The owner will spread apart its jaws and stroke the stapler's insides with deft fingers and small slivers of metal, refilling the stapler's stores with quick, sure, movements.
Those times are the best. When it is full, the stapler thinks that perhaps it is in heaven.
And when a thin sheet is slid between its appendages, the stapler clicks its aquiescence with a pert snap and bites into the white and green stripped flesh of its lover.
Love among office supplies is tricky. But pleasure, as the stapler can attest, is easy.