Friday, February 6, 2015

Poor Workman Blames His Tools

"Ah," I think. "That's what I'll write about for my four each day."

But the freezing morning has turned the ink in my pen to jellied ice, and I can only scratch out a single word (unintelligible) before the train comes to whisk me off to work.

Later, when I try to reconstruct my moment of inspiration only to find it lost to the day's stress and my usual forgetfulness, I write, "Note to self: get rid of this fucking shit pen."

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