I Hate Me, Part 109,630
[Note: after reading what I just wrote, I have to warn you it’s pretty goddamned thin]
I was trying to find a working pen. I’m one of those goddamned idiots who sometimes (most times) saves a pen that doesn’t write instead of throwing it out (maybe the ink was having a bad day, I’m sure it’ll work next time). So every now and again it’ll come back and bite me on the ass. I was frantic, late for work and I had to write a second check for my New Jersey taxes, which was late because the goddamned idiot I hired to do my taxes got the amount I owed wrong. But I digress…so I was tearing up the house looking for a pen. There are three main places where a working pen might be, cute pen caddy’s over stuffed with a shitload of inkless pens, broken pencils and leaky markers. I finally found a pen that worked and grudgingly wrote out the check. Then I noticed a red smear on the check and then another red smear my shirt (one of the few that were up until that point stain less) and then the coffee cup and finally my right hand which was covered in red ink. My hand looked like Lady Macbeth (which coincidentally was my wrestling name). I swore vengeance on the leaky marker and started tearing apart the pen caddy’s looking for the culprit. I finally found it and with a few choice pen-centric curses threw it out and then I put all the pens back, even the ones that didn’t work.