I am a drunken pen, or at least thats what they call me in the betting shop at 4.55pm on a Saturday afternoon. Kept deep inside the cavity of a old polyester jacket to converse with a packet of wrigley's extra strong mints in the dark. I often find myself just listening intently to my master as he begins the day in articulated fashion, and slowly slivers his way towards a gibbering wreck of despair & destruction. He is struggling desperately to make ends meet, as i frequently share space with 1p & 2p. Yesterday i heard him chatting to himself in the kitchen whilst trying to open a tin of spaghetti hoops. Bills haven't been paid in weeks, and the odour that fills the atmosphere can only be matched by that in the backstreets of Calcutta...not that i've been there to experience the aroma.
My use is simple, i write bets! nothing more, nothing less. Starting the day in a elegant manner and posture my nib floats around the paper like a ice skater at the Montreal Olympics, and quite often i will polish the ego by scoring myself 6.0,6.0,6.0 for artistic impression. But as the hours roll by, and my master takes in the full range of liquid refreshment i find that my posture and style have deserted my being within three turns of a clock face. My master is slowly sinking into the abyss of life, and he sits in the towering inferno of middle aged obsurity with no exits. Everytime i appear from the deep well of his pocket i continually keep praying that this journey shall be my last. Maybe i will break, maybe i will have a blockage. Or even better than that, my master may be fortunate to win a cascading amount of money that prompts him to fling me to the gates of pen eternity allowing the master to purchase the Rolls Royce of pens....The Parker!
Until that moment arrives i will continue to be everything my master wishes me to be. Because at the apex of this life's voyage, i am only as good as my master's intensions.