I wasn't always afraid of left-handed people. But last night marked a significant change in the way I view approximately eight percent of our population.

See, I was on my way home when I was mauled by a pack of young criminals who called themselves "The Wezt Side Moneymakaz." Amidst their repeated shouting of the phrases "Thug life" and a bizarre pronunciation of "yeah," I happened to overhear one person say, "Yo, I just straight-up ran outta ink in this pen."

One of the gangsters paused his kicking of my ribs just long enough to reach in his pocket and hand his comrade a fresh pen. That's when it hit me: pen-thug was writing a note with his left hand; pen-thug's pen supplier reached into his pocket with his left hand; the rest of the crew had brandished their switchblades in their left hands.

Fortunately for me, the criminals ran off once they realized I was in possession of exactly zero dollars and 43 cents. But they left a note on the ground. I picked it up and scanned it. "Sorry for the inconvenience," it read, "but it's hard out there for lefties."

It was a kind gesture, for sure, but I must admit that I am not a fan of having my ribs broken and various parts of my body cut up like a bag of goodies. So I dragged myself out of the alley and fetched a cab to the hospital. The kind doctors stitched me up just as always, but I couldn't help but feel like something was... a bit off the entire time. It all became clear after my surgery. I went to shake the doctor's hand, and he put forth his left hand.

The world is out to get me.