Say Hello and Wave GoodBye (to my Dear Pen)

My favourite pen's life is coming to an end.

I realized it this morning: not at all ready to face another day of work, I picked it up with the same joy toddlers show when they destroy crayons, only to find, few seconds later, its poor fragile body torn in at least 8 different pieces (5 of which I didn't even suspect existed), all of them laying like autumn leaves on my homicide hands.
Not having a paper bag to help me prevent hyperventilation, I had to be strong and tried to reconstruct the tiny little body as well as I could. The pen reacted with an unpredictable shot of life, spreading its springs towards me and spinning its cap, but eventually gave up and I was able to restore its original settings. But that was just an illusion. We all know that the pen will not be the same from now on, and every time that I need to scribble a note, I do it with the same cautious anxiety I have when I find myself driving 80 miles away from home with only 1/10 of the gas tank left in the car, and no fuel station to bee seen around (it actually happened to me twice that I had to be rescued in the middle of the highway, and if that is not humiliating enough, your mother calling you 'an idiot' in front of the neighbors will do it).

The importance of a good pen is often underestimated. My handwriting definitely has a tangible shift whenever I write with a pen that I love: if an handwriting psychologist were to analyze my personality based on something I wrote with my dear soon-to-be-gone pen, it would come out that I am a successful, accomplished, loved by everyone (like Raymond) 29 years old funny girl; on the contrary, let him analyze what I wrote with that ink-dripping, coarse Bic I found the other day, and he will probably think he has the privilege of reading an old secret manuscript from Jack the Ripper, although he would not be able to explain why Mr. Jack is so much into shoes.

The content of my writing also changes, based on the pen: a nice pen will produce company strategies (ok, not really, but it will at least pretend), marketing ideas, the lyrics for the next U2 album, a perfectly done reproduction of my subway-neighbor's nose, and other important things like that. A bad pen will barely make it to write 'pff, you're not even my real mother!' as a reply to my boss' note that tells me to call a magazine for a photo shoot.

All this to say what? That I will be very sad when my pen will leave me for good, and that I should stay away from any piece of paper until somebody will be kind enough to save me and give me a nice replacement - Mont Blanc's highly appreciated, by the way.