I was at PCL studying today, and needed a pen. I realized that I had left my pens and pencils at home, so I went to the librarian's desk and asked to borrow one. She gave me this look like "Sure, you're going to borrow it" but gave it to me anyway.
Ten minutes into using it, the ink ran out. Lame! I wrote on everything I could to resuscitate the pen: paper, folders, my hand, whatever I could find. I pounded dents, tried scribbling loop-de-loops, straight lines, you name it. I was getting frustrated.
Finally, after another ten minutes of doing everything short of taking the pen apart, I returned the pen to the librarian: "Hey, sorry, I think your pen is out."
She took the pen in her hand, looked at it with quizzical doubt, and quickly scribbled on a sheet of scrap paper.
It wrote perfectly.
Son of a bitch.
The librarian looked up at me like she was about to bust out laughing, her eyebrows slightly furrowed above her square-rimmed glasses. She tried writing some fancy curly lines to test it one more time, then held out the traitor pen for me to take.
Mouth agape, I protested, "That didn't happen before...that couldn't...you know what, never mind."
I took back the pen and what was left of my dignity, and went back to work.
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