I think of paper shredder nearly one year after I received it for Christmas and recall how it used to control me. My feelings are far different than they were on Christmas morning, 2006. I was delighted to open the trashcan-shaped package to find the shredder, which was the only thing I wanted that Christmas. A shredder is the one dangerous item left that doesn’t require a government license to play with.

I started by shredding the obvious, such as ATM machine receipts and old credit card statements. I lifted the shredding device and looked inside and, sure enough, the old receipts were piled up like paper spaghetti. Next, looking for bigger game, I opened all the junk mail with credit card offers and their phony credit cards. Half a dozen of those cards were barely a snack for my new shredder, which burped as if asking for more.

Next came the junk mail supply itself, which wasn’t too large since all I had was the supply that came Christmas Eve. I shoved a few envelopes into the maw of the shredder and that too was gone. I could tell it was still hungry.

This necessitated a trip to the garage where nearly a week’s worth of junk mail was waiting to be hauled away. This large pile of junk mail kept the shredder humming for several minutes. Finally, I was making progress.

But the junk mail supply didn’t last very long either, so I started examining my box of old income tax forms. I had ten years’ worth of forms. If Uncle Sam wanted something from 1997, I was ready. But hadn’t I read that tax forms only had to be saved seven years? Of course I had. I fed three years of old forms into the shredder, tearing up the 1040A instructions into smaller, six-page bites. This took a while and my hands were tired from tearing forms apart, but the shredder was smiling at me, asking for more, ravenous monster that it was. I threw in two more years’ worth, risking the wrath of Uncle Sam, but it didn’t satisfy the creature.

I started ripping apart Christmas catalogs, which took up half the room. The shredder ate them ravenously, even grabbling a hunk of my long-sleeved shirt as I put my hand too close to the opening. By now it was dark and my hands were locking up from all the paper ripping, but still the shredder wanted more. Its little “on” light glowed ominously.

I laughed maniacally as I grabbed the treasured family photo album, but then I noticed it was 2:00 the morning after Christmas. Everyone had gone to bed except the dog, who hadn’t been walked. The dog was hiding behind the couch, afraid of the shredder which was impatiently waiting to be fed. I wondered if it wanted more than just paper. I picked up the dog. The dog looked at the shredder, and then at me, with a “you wouldn’t dare” doggy expression. It was only a passing thought. I walked the dog and the moonlight and wind took my mind off the shredder.

When we returned to the house, I realized I was hooked on shredding and for the safety of my family I had to put the shredder away. I stuffed it far back in a closet corner, muffled under a pile of blankets.

The shredder was a great present, but it almost got the best of me. I’m confident it’s over between us. But I’ve been thinking. When I die, I don’t want to spend eternity in a pine box. I just want to be shredded.