Indignant

Subway Writing 2

The third pen in the last two weeks just blew it’s load in my pocket. So now I’m using a pencil. I hat using pencils. It makes it look like everything you say is temporary. Not that the thoughts are only temporarily what you believe – I love that conceptually – but that what you have to say will fade from relevance. Even as I write this, these words are only vaguely opaque, and if I say enough the pencil wil retort: “chill out, take a break, go sharpen me because I am tired.” Well, fuck you pencil. I’m not tired. I’m the one who’s a llowed to be lazy, not you, you inanimate tool meant for my use.

I like making my statements in black and white; there should be no gray in what I say. I write brashly, definitively, and conclusively. I don’t write in the fading scrapings of graphite forcing itself to stick to paper. I don’t like to rely on friction pulling off pieces of my utensil. I like to stain my paper by pushing out ink that saturates the page with my thoughts. When I make mistakes, I want to remember those mistakes so that I can learn from them. I don’t want to be able to erase their existence by rubbing a piece of rubber. I want my mistakes to be the most visible pieces. I want someone at first glance to only see the dark scratchy marks where I feverishly undid by overdoing my ink saturation.

My thoughts: I remember being in a good mood when I sat down to write, but I guess that pencil really pissed me off. It was a dull pencil. Even reading this makes me angry at pencils. I looked up who invented pencils, and he seems like a real douche. Only has one eye! What a loser. I know hate all people who have one eye.

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