Eyeball.

“Um, what the fuck is this?” she asked, gingerly picking it up from my desk.

I turned around to see what she was annoying me about.

“It’s an eyeball,” I explained, before turning back to the television.

My answer did not satisfy her.

“Why do you have an eyeball on your desk?”

“Because I don’t have a lot of shelf space.”

“It’s not even in a jar or anything.”

“I’m not wasting a jar on holding an eyeball, that’s disgusting.”

“Then why is it on your desk!”

I turned off the television because I knew she wasn’t going to stop talking over my program. I’d just have to try again later.

“It’s on my desk because I don’t want to waste a container on it. It’s an eyeball. It’s full of germs. I can still use my desk when it has an eyeball on it, but I can’t use a jar for anything else if it’s already holding an eyeball.”

Still not good enough.

“But WHY do you even have an eyeball! Where did it come from?” she demanded.

I popped out my robotic eye and held it out to her. She fainted.

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