I'm on my third pen today and it's not even lunch.
Just like socks in the drier... except not. I am solely responsible for each tragic loss to the Bic generation. There is no sock monster or fourth dimension into which they paradoxically slip-- the pens anyway. I am fairly sure that sock monsters DO exist.
All this means is that I AM dumb. And needlessly frantic. I think I'd rather not write another thing all day than give myself the satisfaction of breaking in a new pen. (weird sense of masochism)
now, WHERE THE FUCK ARE MY SUNGLASSES
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