The one I borrowed from you about a month ago? The blue one with black ink, the fountain pen you got as a graduation present from your grandpa? With your initials embossed on the cap?
The one you’ve been searching furiously for since last Monday?
That pen is mine now. I’ve got it in a coffee cup with about twenty or thirty others. Not just pens, either. Some are pencils (both mechanical and No. 2) that I’ve collected from other people, much like this delightful new pen. Some have never even been sharpened.
Your pen, though... it’s unlike any other piece in my collection. When I write with it, I feel inspired. I feel as though I could write something on par with Shakespeare, or at least sitcom-worthy. Do you ever get that feeling?
I ask that rhetorically, of course. How could you, without this pen?
Don’t bother printing this post tomorrow and waving it in my face; I’ll deny ever writing it, blaming “old unreliable Google” for mucking up my blog feed and inserting someone else’s post. And while you scream until your face turns purple, your pen will be rusting into crusty dust.
By the way... I really like that new stapler you got last week at the supply store down the street. I have a drawer full of staplers just like it.
And they’re lonely.