A fun post!

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A PENCIL

My life was a life of glamour. Luckily, I was owned by one of the most well- known authors of 21^st century America, and since I was the pencil with which he completed the last chapter of his best-selling novel, he considered me a lucky charm. Luckily too, he was obsessed with the neatness of his writing desk, as he believed that if it was unclean or scattered, the book he was writing wouldn’t be successful. As a result, I was never thrown around the desk or the room like other pencils with different owners were. I had a special, comfortable bed between two sheets of paper. Like I said, my life was one of glamour, and comfort too.

However, the first day of my life wasn’t all that enjoyable. I was born in a mill, and I remember some bearded men roughly shoving me into a thin, rectangular box. It was very painful as my pink, rubbery rear was still very sensitive. Plus, when I was in the box, I had to listen to all the other pencils complain about how terrible their lives were going to be, and how they wished they were human instead. We were then thrown into a big box kind of thing that moved and jumped. Some call it a truck? It was quite an uncomfortable ride. After the ride, we were flung onto different racks in a shop, and Jesus! The landing impact was bad. Nevertheless, that was only the first day. For the rest of my life, I was on cloud nine.

The second day of my 30-day journey was unforgettable. That was the day that I came to be owned by the famous author. He opened the box that I was in and muttered something that sounded like “ Inky pinky ponky”. He then started touching all our rears one by one, and how it tickled! After that, he suddenly pulled me out, put me in his coat pocket, and walked out of the shop.

That day was also the first time I was sharpened. It wasn’t the most pleasant, but it was inevitable. A pencil has to be sharpened, just like a human undergoes puberty. The first sharpening is pencil puberty, and every time a pencil is sharpened after that, it’s a sign that the pencil is aging. Like I said, it wasn’t a very comfortable feeling, but it did enhance my looks a lot. The horn looking thing on my head did make me more handsome! Plus, that day was also the first that someone had used me to write. It was a marvellous experience. It felt a lot like a roller coaster. Thankfully, my owner wasn’t a fast writer, and he also took numerous breaks in between, which gave me time to recover from the previous ‘roller coaster ride’. It was like we were made for each other!

I shared a lot of my owner’s glamour. Since he considered me his lucky charm, he always took me along to his award ceremonies and whenever he received an award, I was always mentioned in his speeches where he would thank me and dedicate all the awards he got to me! He would hold me up in the air, and I would hear camera shutters clicking. A picture of us like that was also published in the New York Times! However, while I became famous among pencils and the humans for good reasons, my owner became famous because he was the only one in the human world who would dedicate his awards to a pencil!! People thought he was mad! I could also sense people laughing whenever he held me up in the air to get our picture taken. I felt guilty for stealing most of my owner’s limelight, since I knew I hadn’t done anything to help him, except let him use my graphite to write and produce colour. However, I didn’t do anything about it, because for one, I couldn’t, since no one would listen to a pencil! Secondly, I quite enjoyed the limelight!

I also enjoyed the jealousy of other pencils. My owner always put me in his coat pocket, so my head always stuck out. As we passed shops and schools, where pencils were mistreated, I always caught the pencils giving me nasty looks and talking about me, which I can bet were not very positive talks. After the first day of my life, I thankfully never had to interact with pencils again. I must say, pencils aren’t the brightest of things.

The days of my life passed so quickly that before I knew it, I was turning 29 days old. The humans say that the more fun you’re having, the quicker the time goes by. By my 29^th day, I was only an inch tall. My owner was not in the best of moods, since I was getting smaller and more difficult to write with. This was the time that pencils were normally thrown out and left to die in the garbage bin, but my death was a roller coaster. My owner decided to make the most of me and continue writing until I died. He gave me one of the best roller coaster rides before I lost consciousness.