To type is not to write, and not to write is not to use a pen. I am overriding my inevitability to use a pen, the median of technology between a pencil and a keyboard. I am not unrepentant of my actions, as I unwillingly lost my favorite pen, the embodiment of everything I write, which I adore. My favorite pen with about 40% of its lifespan left, fluctuating between blots and dots, was stolen directly from the top of my folder, simply because it felt uncomfortable in my pocket. The only problem is that I’ve had about fifty favorite pens, but the sequential actions of a weekly automated pen-sweeping street cleaner prevents me from having a single favorite pen throughout the entire school year. My careless act of removing my favorite pen from the sanctuary of my pocket, because I failed to prioritize visuals, subsequently led me to an irreversible consequence.

Now the remoteness of the feeling of a pen sitting vertically in my pocket, emphasized by the translucent red tube and the shiny chrome clip wrapped over the copper rivet complementing my gray shorts with a slightly blue hue, leaves me to use a number 2 pencil to take my geometry final, or a keyboard to write this essay, practically forcing me to suffer the hex of a pencil gypsy, which is an insight I do not want, nor deserve. I'd much rather feel discomfort while walking to my history class, the jabbing of the sharp tip on my outer left thigh abandoning a dense ink glob in its place, than having my fingers covered with graphite absorbed by my hand sweat. Now I have no pen, rather a shrinking piece of wood, never sufficiently satisfying my need for bold.