med/moy in Manhattan

(NaBloPoMo: eight)
There are few things I love more than a great pen. I've got boxes and boxes of fine point Sharpies, which since design school have become The Favorite. Then there's Micron...oh!...and Staedtler...love Staedtler...and Zig...You see? Few things I love more. When felt tip or rolling-writer won't do, there's Bic, tried and true. I've been known to hang on to certain Bics for years. E.M. and Kates, do you recall the turquoise-green Bics I was given that were almost more precious than the boy who bequeathed them? The last one ran out of ink last night. Truly, an emotional evening.

As one can imagine, I've got quite the pen collection. My nightstand drawer houses hundreds hyperbob-ly (that's for you, Linds) speaking, but I've got lots. As not to make the drawer-dwellers feel forsaken, there's a great little wire basket at arms-length, on the bottom shelf of said nightstand. A good pen needn't go friendless. My drafting desks...well, that's another story! A Universe of Pens.

While in NYC a few weeks ago, I found myself in an atrocious situation. After flipping on my book light for some light reading, I pulled out my journal to do some night-light writing. I searched my bag for Mr. Sharpie. What?! But how? The gasping could only go on for so long. K lives in a loft, so there's a "Shh!-the-Loft-Mates-Are-Sleeping" policy posted and strictly enforced. Because of the bitty-barracks, along with the "Shh!" policy, they also live by the credo, "What's yours is mine and what's mine is ours," which was in my favor that penless night. So, Book Light Beacon and I were soon on the grave-shift prowl. Two design students in residence, this place was bound to be a pen-haven. I'd have a 05 Micron between my knuckles in no time. No need to panic.

Alas, alack and, woe indeed, my discoveries were definitely discouraging: a lone Bic. A lone Bic (!) And not my beloved med/moy, but a fine Bic, which totally cramps my style. To make the midnight more calamitous, the pen's top had been chewed to bits. I made my way back to the futon and muffled my despondent yelps. Not only was this the only pen in the household, this proprietary pen had been assaulted. This wasn't the work of a girl. No, no. Girls don't carry out such acts. This was most decidedly the work of a MALE. How can I be sure? Here's how: along with the munch-marks, the pen had been drawn on with another pen. Graffiti-ed. Tattooed. Who does that? Lest we dwell on such savagery, let's go back to me, my book light and K's loft in mid-town Manhattan: Pen in hand. Collected, I passed the night pensively writing away, with the aid of Mr. med/moy Bic. He did quite well for himself.

A few moments ago, here on Yale, a similar situation, involving paper and pen, presented itself. I reached for the closest writing instrument when...What the? My hand felt something prickly. Yucky. I looked down, and there it was. The Innocent Assaulted Pen. I abducted Him! Why? And now He'd settled in to abide with the others: The Felts, The Rollers, The Bics, The Staedlers, and The Zigster? All cozy-like and accepted. My pens. They had risen to the occasion. It's almost as if they shoved Mr. Innocent to the front of the line - The Head of the Class to ensure His usage tonight. I guess it's for the better, you know? Loneliness can get old, right? And, we've got a history now. A good pen needn't go friendless. So, K, Hillary, and Jordan, if you're missing your dear Bic, don't you worry, He's not out on the streets. He's safe here, back in a big Bic family, getting used - in the good way. And, for crying out loud, girls, walk a few doors down to the CVS and buy yourselves some Sharpies. You won't be disappointed, nor will your midnight-meandering guests.