I guess we really don't change that much. When I was a kid, I loved nothing more than to pull up in my crappy, butt-ugly, dirt cheap powder blue chunk of Detroit steel at a stoplight and crank up something offensive full blast. Dead Kennedys was a personal favorite. I'd fast forward to something choice and go slow up to a stoplight just for the effect.

Back then, I told myself it was because I didn't care what other people thought about me. Of course, that was patently and obviously wrong. Didn't even pass the bloody-freaking-obvious test. I cared very much what other people thought about me. I wanted them to be surprised. I wanted to shock people.

Anyone who knows me knows that I still do. The difference is that now I admit it.

I love shocking people. I don't do it at every opportunity like I used to, but I still relish it. Like that lady from the PTA today. Oh, for a video phone. Oh, for the opportunity. Sometimes it's even fun just to imagine the response.

I set the phone down and pick up the two pairs of forceps. They bump each other as I lift them. clink. I push one down into the exposed soft tissue around the mouse's trachea and slide the other underneath from the other side. I lift, isolating the organ. My sleeve makes a rustle as I move into position. I slip the needle between two of the cartilage rings and depress the plunger. As the syringe empties, the metal plunger contacts the glass barrel with a click. I pull out the needle and press the wound closed, sealing it with glue click just before placing the mouse on the warming pad to recover. rustle.

“Yes, I'm sorry. Go on....”