We live in weird, insane times. I just thought I’d say that in case you didn’t notice. Right now, I’m looking at a disposable ball-point pen I’ve had for years and years, as long as I can remember. I probably stole it from somewhere as it doesn’t look like a ball-point pen that I’d actually buy. For one thing, it has black ink and I like blue ink. But the pen itself is blue plastic, thick and comfortable to write with. I never use it, which is probably why it still works. This is not the proper philosophy to apply to a pancreas or something, but in a world where ink is life’s blood, spilling as little of it as possible would seem logical. But let be be the finale of seem: What mighty power of this pen has gone untapped? What amazing dimensions have been created by its disuse?

I can’t believe I still have this flimsy thing when so many more solid things have disappeared, slipped through my fingers. I could have stolen this pen in two thousand when I worked in Bethesda, making it older than Goblin, my relationship with Rob, living in New York, and everything else I currently take for granted. This pen could have been in my hands before the ascension of The Chimp, before the towers fell and the world’s descent into madness (and the ocean) accelerated a thousandfold.

In the intervening time, I’ve had four computers, three cell phones, two relationships, five homes, three cars, nine nieces and nephews . . . and one plastic ballpoint pen.

Today’s musings brought to you by Writer’s Block.