It might come as some surprise that someone married to Mr. Pencil only owns one pencil. I own only one pencil, a stumpy sub-compact mechanical number that I use for maths. I borrowed it from Mr. Pencil about eight months back and have adopted it as my own. Keeping track of a single pencil requires dedication.

The sociopath in my calculus class pointed out how efficient and wonderful this little pencil is, not one of those outsized, inferior pencils. He is also insane.

Recently I wore away the last of my little teal-blue pencil’s itty-bitty eraser and I decided I would get a grand new pencil, with an industrial-family-sized eraser and maybe even made out of metal. I went to the dreadful Office Depot on SE MLK and spent fifteen minutes in the mechanical pencil department (and even briefly the drafting supplies department!) before choosing a single, sleek, post-modern, aerodynamic whopper of a new pencil.

I brought it back to the office, unwrapped it and then realized I didn’t know how insert get the lead sticks it came with. An unloaded mechanical pencil has not much worth. I unscrewed caps and chambers and frowned. My careful uncappings turned to careless force. I had to ask Grigsby to help. Like a patient father he examined it from all angles but finally we realized the pencil was broken. Broken before it ever served me. What a waste of time.

I bought a Pink Pearl eraser and kept my old pencil.

Every day we shovel fuel.