ROOM FOR A PONY

I am a pen magnet.

I don’t mean to brag, but that is an indisputable fact. Pens gravitate toward me wherever I go. They just can’t seem to keep away from me. Apparently they find me really attractive.

The minute they see me, they’re sure I’m going to do all kinds of cool things with them. Like write. Play around with them. Take them places. Show them off to my friends.  All of which I … of course…. do.

So who can blame them? But… how do they know that I’m like that, before they even meet me? Honestly, all I do is waltz into a place — any place — and they wend their way right over; try to get me to pick them up — which I inevitably do. I can’t help it. They practically throw themselves at me. I swear I’m not doing anything to bring this on.

Just to give you an idea of how bad it is, the other day I bought some carrots and when I got home I discovered that one of them was in the shape of a pen. See? They’ll even disguise themselves as vegetables just to work their way into my pockets.

I’m at my wits end with this. I have so many that I end up ignoring most of them. My home is turning into the Heartbreak Hotel of pens. I love that they love me, but I can’t possibly love them all back! It would take up every hour of my time just to give a few minutes of attention to each one!

You’ll be hearing more about my pen problem, because I’ve got a big one! My pens take up more room than a farm animal.

Good God, what have I done? Sometimes I wonder if I have more pens than brain cells.

That would explain why I’m sometimes accused of thinking with my pen.