You spend three minutes running your fingernail along the sealed edge of a pasta box like you're defusing a bomb, find absolutely nothing, then just start clawing at it like a raccoon fighting a garbage can until there's shredded cardboard everywhere and the pasta inside looks like it survived a small explosion.

I spent twenty minutes last week looking for the opening on a phone charger box, convinced there was a hidden tab. Turns out the entire front was the opening—I just needed a box cutter, a second box cutter, and the will to commit a crime. My neighbor heard me swearing and asked if I was okay. I told him I was fine, just having a normal Thursday with a piece of plastic that's technically sharper than I am.

You spend three minutes wrestling with a sealed package of bandages for your broken fingernail. By the time you get it open, you've broken another fingernail and now need two bandages. The package contains exactly one.

You grip the scissors with the confidence of a surgeon, position them at that perfect angle, and in one fluid motion they betray you completely—suddenly you're having a full conversation with your palm about mortality. The package sits there unopened, waiting patiently while you're in the bathroom running your hand under cold water and Googling "how deep is too deep." Three minutes later you're back with a butter knife, which somehow feels safer, which is objectively insane.