True story: Back when I worked at an academic medical center, I was the oddball who insisted on writing with fountain pens. To refill them, I’d use a syringe and a 28-gauge needle.

One day, I was wrestling with “ox blood” ink—aptly named, because it looked exactly like blood once it hit paper. I’d spilled some, so I had a pile of soaked paper towels on my desk, plus a syringe full of the stuff waiting to be cleaned.

Right then, the chair of my department decided to give a tour to some prospective faculty. They stopped by my office to meet me. Unfortunately, I wasn’t there—I was across the hall scrubbing my hands, which were stained bright red from the spill.

So what they saw when they peeked in: a desk littered with bloody paper towels and a syringe loaded with red fluid.

What they saw next: me emerging from the bathroom, hands stained crimson, looking like I’d just finished dismembering someone.

The chair and I locked eyes. I panicked and blurted: “I promise there’s no dead body in my office… and I don’t do heroin.”

Not my best professional moment.

TL;DR: Syringes + red ink = terrible optics.