Today at City Hall, a fan of my writing gave me a gold pen. Well, he less gave it to me than didn't chase me when I ripped it from the display on his desk and dashed down six flights of stairs out into the bright bright city. The baseball equivalent would be defensive indifference, so it doesn't count as stealing. And why does a notary public deserve a gold pen anyway? A gold stamp I can see.
I've been biting the pen to see if it's real gold, but I haven't been able to leave teeth marks, even when poking a needle beneath my big toenail. The Internet says that biting isn't a reliable test. After the toenail thing, I'll believe whatever the Internet tells me. I've already divulged the PIN of my ATM card to the Internet. It's 0000. If a banker steals my wallet, which is made of gold leaf, I hope he will start with 0001 and end with 9999.
So for the past hour I've been staring at the pen as it lies in its circle of ten tea lights. I wonder what kind of golden words it contains, and I wonder how long and obscure those words are. I regret not having one of those modern computer screens that you can write on with a pen. I regret using all of the paper in my home to pad my ego collection in my move to another home. I regret the subsequent decision that life is better without paper, as does my shower massager. I regret inadvertently answering the question of why a man would need a shower massager.
Well, the tea lights have started to burn out. I appreciate all of you listening to me talk about my day. It helps me get through the next one. Good night.
