(I’m in the stockroom with my coworker, opening boxes. It’s not going as quickly as I hoped it would, with only two of us working most of the day. It’s also been raining all day, and he only has maybe 30 minutes left of his shift, whereas I still have over an hour.)

Me: “Are we done yet?”

Coworker: “No.”

Me: “Ugh, I’m not going to be able to finish these by myself.”

Coworker: “Nah, you can do it.”

Me: “Not unless I get struck by lightning and become The Flash. I’d finish in, like, 30 seconds.”

Coworker: “Well, there are a bunch of metal rods over there. You could go stand outside for a while.”

Me: *makes a face* “I forgot; there was also a particle accelerator explosion. I can’t be Flash.”

(No matter how many times I’ve wished I were The Flash, it just doesn’t seem possible — let alone safe. Sigh.)

(My friends and I are playing a tabletop roleplaying game similar to “Dungeons and Dragons.” We have three players and our Game Master. We have been given a fairly standard fetch quest, gathering up a bunch of items to be brought back. One part of the quest leads us to a series of caves that requires us to swim through an underwater lake. That forces us to leave most of our weapons and armor behind. The three of us venture into the cave, armed only with what little we can carry through the water. Our wizard, though, has a magical dagger. Once a day, it can cast the spell “Stand Still.” As the name implies, the target is frozen in place, unable to move. The caverns are largely uneventful, and at last we reach the macguffin. In this case, it’s a crystal on a pedestal. I check it for traps, then pick it up. This causes a stone door to rise, opening the way. But it also reveals a cave troll! Properly equipped, it will be no match. But in our current state, it is a dangerous foe. Our wizard draws his dagger.)

Wizard: “I cast–”

Me: “Wait! Is it in the doorway yet?”

Game Master: “Uh, yeah. The troll is in the door.”

Me: “Now!”

Wizard: “I cast Stand Still!”

Game Master: “The troll is frozen, its body blocking the exit.”

Me: “I put the crystal back.”

Game Master: “You… Wait, you what?”

Me: “I put the crystal back on the pedestal.”

Game Master: “You… Oh, man. The door closes, bones snap, and flesh pops as the massive stone crushes the troll.”

Me: “I pick up the crystal.”

Game Master: “The door opens, blood and viscera dripping…”

Me: “I put the crystal back.”

Game Master: “The door closes.”

Me: “I pick the crystal up.”

Game Master: “The door opens.”

Me: “I put the crystal back.”

Game Master: “The door closes.”

Me: “I pick the crystal up.”

Game Master: “The door opens.”

Me: “I put the crystal back.”

Game Master: “IT’S DEAD!”

Me: “Just checking!”

(I am in year-eleven chemistry class. I am one of those people who is capable of retaining interesting — but completely useless — information. We are looking over a series of revision questions for the exam. The teacher has continually stressed that unless the question specifically tells us what a certain compound is and we haven’t learnt it in class, then we don’t need that information in order to answer the question, as the question will provide the info we need. One student who is notorious for not paying attention raises his hand.)

Student: “Mr. [Teacher], we haven’t learned what EDTA is.”

(The teacher looks like he is going to spontaneously combust out of annoyance. He asks the class at large:)

Teacher: “Who here can tell [Student] what EDTA is?!”

Me: “Ethylenediaminetetraacetic acid.”

(The entire class and the teacher fall silent, staring at me. Eventually, the teacher manages to find his tongue.)

Teacher: “Well… [My Name] is correct, but you don’t need to know that… [My Name], how do you know that?”

Me: “It was on an episode of Torchwood.”

(At my job, we handle hundreds of thousands of customers per day, across five different programs that barely talk to each other. It’s long been considered one of the low points of the job. Although I work at home, I’m the office “girl Friday” who can fluently work across all five programs, so when one team in my department needs help, I’m usually the first asked to move teams. Within the last month, the company has announced a new program that supposedly consolidates all five, reducing the back-and-forth we all have to deal with. As it starts next week, I text my husband about it on my break.)

Me: “I have OT on Tuesday for the training before it rolls out.”

Husband: “Sad face.”

Me: “It rolls out next month. Hopefully it lives up to the ‘All in One’ thing they’ve been telling us.”

Husband: “The one program to rule them all?”

Me: “That is the hope.”

Husband: “Three programs were given to the trainees, their eyes full of hope, seven to the second tier, in their offices of white. And nine programs were thrown upon the work-from-homers, doomed to multitask.”

(I was laughing so hard I was late getting back from my break. I love that man!)

(I play Dungeons and Dragons in a bar with some friends once a week. This particular session we are trying to figure out if there is still some damaging magic left in a room. We’ve just teamed up temporarily with some “bad guys,” one of whom is a goblin. My character is a dwarf. While the other players are discussing how to test the room…)

Me: “I pick up a goblin and throw him into the room.”

(Yes, I tossed a goblin. Because I am a dwarf, and nobody tosses a dwarf.)