Hi, my name is Mr. Pencil, and no, I’m not an alcoholic.

I’m just depressed. And I’m here because I need to get a grip, and not a pencil grip, although it has been a while since I was held correctly... hmmm, maybe that’s for another time...

Why am I depressed? Well, you see, my poetry’s just not the same as it used to be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still sharp and all, I just don’t have a rubber anymore. Everything was going great, we had a beautiful relationship, I’d make mistakes and she would take care of them. But then the arguments started. It was always MY fault. She kept saying my constant screw ups were wearing her down. She said I was like a stain on her white purity, and every night she had to rub herself to get me off. Well, I got news for you, bitch, you never once got me off! A friend of mine got me into liquid paper, but that just got me high, then all I wanted to do was make origami birds...

Who cares now, why’s it matter, she left me!!!

Ok, so I had her bitten off! She had it coming, she was always rubbing me up the wrong way. It was cramping my style.

Speaking of cramped style, what about those ball-point pens?!?! They think they’re sooooo good, and they’re always making fun of me. They keep saying things like “you always crumble under pressure” and “you’ve got no balls”. Yeah, well, you know that saying “that’ll put lead in your pencil”? They were talking about me, baby!!! How do you like them apples?!?!!

Now you’ve got me started, what about this whole writer’s strike business? All of a sudden I’ve got Mr. Parker and Mr. Papermate ringing me up at all hours of the day and night looking for a handout! Yeah, well, fuck ‘em! You never wanted to know me when you went to America, to make it in the big-time! Honestly... Papermate... more like kiss-ass! Apparently he even tried to hook up with one of those fancy laser pens. You know, the ones that come with the new electronic mouse pads. Stupid fool actually brought cheese to the date! And they call us losers?!?!

As for Mr. Parker, well he’s one of those red-blooded ones. You know the type, arrive in their own cases, only come out for special occasions, need a ruler just to stay straight. I always knew there was something shifty about him... Sneaking out in the middle of the night, prowling around the office looking for helpless pens to attack and stealing their refills.

I once had a friend who lost seven refills. It all became too much and eventually he couldn’t take it anymore. He became tormented by feelings of inadequacy, until one day he snapped. He threw himself off the desk and rolled under the tea lady's trolley. I’ll never forget that day. The terrible sounds. Jamming of wheels, cracking of plastic, not to mention the smell. That horrific smell of melting plastic, as cup after cup of scolding hot coffee fell from the trolley. I guess I should be grateful for all the top marks he gave my work and understand that his refill was nearly run out, anyway.

Wow, I can’t believe it, I’m actually starting to feel better. Writing always was my best form of therapy, even if it does wear me down. Anywho, that’s about enough from me. Thanks for listening! I don’t like to be blunt, but I have to go now... I think I feel a poem coming on...

Until next time...

“Stand up for your writes”

Mr. Pencil