Much Ado: Get Your Own Pen

Don’t ask me for a pen.

You’re not getting one.

Never.

Never ever again.

I don’t care if it’s somehow a matter of life or death. You better ask someone else.

And you can thank all of the awful thieves that have left me bitter and jaded. I’m not getting over it and don’t you dare tell me I’m overreacting. I want my mother{expletive}ing pens back.

I’m a writer. I care about pens. I always have one on me. Actually, I always have at least four or five on me of assorted colors. I need those. Every. Last. One of them. Have I shown you my notebooks? Here, look at a page.

20150325_182716

I also color code my life so it’s easier to see what I need to do in a day in my agenda book. Writing and blogging gets written in light blue. My knitting projects are in dark blue. Work is green, because money. My internship duties get written in red, because they’re time sensitive. School stuff is orange, because orange is very meh. Fun things are pink, and errands are black. Guess which one is MISSING? Only the most important, the pink one. Is this what you wanted rotten thief? To take all of my fun away? No fun for me? Thanks a bunches! I do you a favor and this is how your repay me? Noted. You hear that? NOTED.

What absolutely infuriates me about things like this is at some point, it’s my fault. I’m the one who keeps putting my faith in inconsiderate, forgetful morons. Expecting them to return my belongings. I know better than that.

People prove to me every hour of every day that they aren’t worth my trust. And worse than being mad at inconveniences like this one, is the self awareness I’m cursed with that shifts the ultimate blame onto myself.

The only joy in being angry is directing it at something or someone.

You can sit there and think about how they’re the worst. How you’re pretty much a saint for trying to aid them in their unpreparedness; oh the poor, lost soul who can’t think of possibly needing to write something in a day. How much you suffer for the sake of literacy and preserving language. How much better you are than them because you would have returned a pen you borrowed. You’re a thoughtful person like that. You know the pain of having your belongings snatched away from you, and you’d never bring that kind of pain upon a fellow man. The world is lucky that people like you still exist.

But I can’t be angry at anyone but myself. That takes out all of the sick pleasure of being mad and that’s just depressing. So now I’m mad, and self loathing, and I have no outlet because it’s not like I can write, because where the fizzityuck are my pens???

You know when the naive among us ask why bad things happen in the world?

Well, I have a theory…

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