I feel sorry for my poor pen. Day in, day out, at all times of the night I grab it, drop it, throw it, curse it, and then apologize. It is a very forgiving pen (at least, I thought so until today). It has served me well, with no sputtering or blots, no randomly running out of ink during particular letters (I'm looking at you, purple BIC pen; you and your hatred of "u"), and good quality blue ink. It is faithful and has been with me for longer than I had orginally thought, considering the short lifespans of pens nowadays. *shakes fist at pen companies* Liquid ink pens, while giving smooth quality writing, run out of ink really, really quickly. But not my pen. No, my pen is a good ol'fashioned blue ink U of S pen. We had a platonic relationship. I'd get mad, it would stop, I would beg forgiveness, it would continue. All was well, I thought.
Until today.
I went to my class, blissfully unaware of the treacherous thoughts in the depths of my pencil case, the coup being planned by my inking implements. I twirled my pens as I waited patiently for the lectures to catch up to where I was (they didn't, by the way-I need to stop reading ahead) and doodled ideas for stick guy comics. (I dabble. And rivulet. Wait, that's babble. Which I am apparently incapable of not doing. Which confused me. Stop talking now, parentheses.)
When I was done my classes, I went to the washroom, and-lo and behold-there was a long, thin pen mark down the right side of my neck, going to my collarbone. I was confused. Then it hit me.
My pen had tried to kill me.
It all made sense now. The sudden quietness, the willingness to work easily, the quick acceptance of my apologies when before it would pout. It had been planning this for a while now. As I was daydreaming, SCHWIP! It tried to slash my jugular. But it failed.
You, my pen, have a blunt end. You cannot slash. You can bludgeon, but not cut. And I shall ensure to keep you away from my head.
I can break you. I can throw you away. I can do any number of things that will make the other pens in my holder scream in sympathy.
But I will be merciful. I have not forgotten all of the times we had, the stories we wrote, the jokes we made. I will forgive you.
This time.
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