pens

My friends have teased me about my Small Spiral Notebooks for ages, but I’ve never gotten around to showing some of you the little treasure that my notebook contains. I’d watched my friends rave about their fountain pens and decided that I’d look into saving up the money to get a good one for myself as well.

I’m addicted. Horribly addicted.

She and I are the unintentional peas in a pod; five or six years ago we were introduced by friends who knew her, and her husband, first, and who thought of Jeff and I as “another Brian and Suzan.” They were as right in many ways as they were wrong, for we are as radically different as we are eerily similar, and our friendships keep doubling over and crossing themselves and coloring and re-coloring over the lines as a result.

Some people find dust bunnies and old papers when they move. For me, scissors and pens vanish from my grasp, and lie embryonic and unseen in overlooked corners, until it is time to move or clean. Suddenly, they gestate, and every room suddenly births scissor twins and quadruplet pens, to my confusion and Jeff’s annoyance.