Think, think, think. You realize that the pen beside your blank sheet is still the center of attraction for the black hole of ideas. Papermate. Notice the blue casing. You know that it is supposed to indicate color, but shouldn't it be a more accurate shade of blue. Of course, you purchased the medium point not wanting to be too heavy or too light just like that health magazine suggested.

You wonder where the subscription came from anyway? Mom? Come to think of it your mother always did find the articles to be well written. Typical; some meathead qualifies for praise by your parent and all you ever get is the "you'll never succeed as a writer, can't you do something with your life" routine over and over. Yet, here you sit trying to crank out some opening line. The story is almost with you. Concentrate. You get distracted too easily. Always going off on irrelevant tangents. Focus. Think. Concentrate. Damn it, you've got to stop looking at that pen.

Tick, tick, tick. You need to block out the sound, well, not all of it. The radio seems to feed you ideas. They are the tired ideas from a skipping record of thought. New Kids On The Block. Bo-o-oring. The upbeat feeling of fifth grade love seems to saturate the lyrics, yah, "you got the right stuff". God you hate this song, it sucks. Actually, when you think about it the pen color seems to match the lines on your paper pretty well. Hmmm...oh, there you go again. Think. Maybe you shouldn't have bought the fuckin' thing. It's driving you insane--a real bargain at fifty-nine cents. Or six for two and a half bucks. Same price as the gummy worms.

You can feel the last of those goodies dissolving in stomach acid though the taste still lingers as a thin film on your tongue. The lady at the counter frowns every time you buy them. Maybe she's a health nut that reads the same magazine as your mom. Look at that, "USA" is imprinted on the end of the pen as if to say "oh yeah, made in America". Maybe it's really manufactured in that Chinese province, Usa. You wonder if their workers are as lazy as ours. Either way the ink flows smoothly. Christ, concentrate. Use the piece of crap, don't study it.

How long have you been there? Where's a clock? You see your senior portrait hanging on the wall next to your high school diploma. No clock. What time is it? Must be late, you've been sitting here for an eternity. Just sitting with your paper ready and papermate nearby. You pick it up to roll it slowly between your thumb and index finger. Think. Feels smooth. Fuck, there you go again!

This is really getting stupid, you need a cigarette. And so now you pretend to smoke the blue stick. Addiction. That's it; you're a papermate junkie. Okay, shut up and just write something. Anything. "It was a dark and stormy night."

Say, it's raining outside. You can hear the steady tapdance of drops on a tin roof. Shit, it's really pouring out and you're trappped here, with your jail mate: the papermate. This is so dumb. Fuck it. Forget it. Just screw it. You can't think of anything. This pen will give you a stroke if you go on.

Aha! Write a letter to the makers of the frickin' pen. Tell them to label the things as "hazardous to your mental health" or you'll sue. Let's see, where would you send it? America or China? The lady at the counter might know. Of course, she may lecture you on the consequences of gummy worm overdoses. But they're certainly better than eating this. Aw, man. That's it, you're done.