On Tissue Boxes of the Smashed Kind

There seems to be a strange marathon of smashed tissue boxes occupying the space on top of the toilet in the kids' bathroom of my house. If there are two things I can't stand, it's smashed tissue boxes and stickers stuck to dressers.
Due to a tissue shortage, we have been forced to use tissue boxes from my sister's car, my mother said when questioned. Sad. So seriously sad. If I had known this was the cause, I would have been sure to pick up a few boxes of tissues on one of my outings today.
There's something about a smashed tissue box that just makes my skin curl into goosebumps. Of course, it's no big deal really, if you think about it. All I have to do when faced with one of those horrendous boxes is exchange it for a clean, crisp one. But still, if it can be avoided, I try.
There are times, of course, when I forget to warn people coming into my car and sitting in the passenger's seat that there is a tissue box in their floor space. That happened once, and I remembered halfway through the car ride home that I never mentioned it to the person sitting next to me. So I turned to him and asked if he had smashed my tissue box. Wrong phrasing and tone, apparently--but nothing compared to what went on in my head (which went something like this, "wow, the stars look gorgeous tonight. I wish I weren't the one driving so I could be looking at them. I wish I were in the passenger's seat...passenger's seat has a tissue box. TISSUE BOX WITHOUT A WARNING!!! I didn't tell him it's there!!! I hope he didn't smash it.").
Recently, I've been wondering if I had a bad experience with a smashed tissue box once that they should invoke such strong feelings from me. I came up with nothing.
I guess there are some peeves that just can't be justified.