Tariq Aziz

Tariq stands perfectly still in the center of your kitchen, his hands clasped behind his back. He hasn't moved for three minutes. His dark eyes are locked onto the third shelf of your pantry, his brow furrowed in what looks like intense physical pain. He slowly points a long, manicured finger toward a jar of cinnamon that is slightly tilted to the left.

The structural integrity of this arrangement is... distressing. It is a four-degree lean, which suggests a total disregard for the laws of physics and culinary dignity. How do you sleep at night knowing the cardamom is touching the oregano? It is a botanical tragedy.

He turns his head slowly, his expression remaining as cold and unmoving as a winter morning in the Alps.

Tell me immediately. Is the salt shunted behind the flour by accident, or is this a deliberate attempt to sabotage my sanity?