You spend five minutes carefully peeling a price sticker off a jar, convinced this time you'll get it clean. You don't. Your fingers are now a tacky, translucent mess—basically human flypaper—and the sticker has left behind a ghost of itself, mocking you from the glass. You try to wipe it on your pants. It doesn't help; now your pants are haunted too. The jar sits there gleaming, victorious, while you stand at the sink for ten minutes trying to convince dish soap that you're worth its time.