Pens

SANITY ON BACKORDER

From Hive Peak Boulevard

By Danu Marche

Humor Columnist

Published: June 11, 2026

Synapse & Spectacle

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This week, my pen decided it’s a part-time employee.

One moment I’m mid-thought, documenting a flash of genius that will absolutely change the course of human history (or at least keep me from forgetting the grocery list), and suddenly — nothing. The pen freezes like it’s a startled deer in office supply form. Oh, it’ll write again, sure, but only after I’ve sacrificed ten minutes of my life to frantically scribbling in the margins like I’m trying to open a magical portal to the ballpoint realm.

Every pen I own has this exact attitude problem. They’re all, “You want ink? Prove it. Show me a doodle of Saturn’s rings first.” I’ve got notebooks that look like they belong to a conspiracy theorist — full of corner spirals, frantic zigzags, and a single grocery note that says lemons?? in three different handwriting styles.

Some pens have learned new tricks. One refuses to start unless I do the little flick motion, like I’m a wizard casting Inkus Functionalis. Another has developed a sort of performance art streak: it’ll start writing, but only in increasingly faint shades of gray, as though fading away into the afterlife while whispering, “Remember me…”

And don’t even get me started on the “smooth-writing gel pens” — the ones that glide across paper like they’re skating at the Olympics, until they hit a microscopic piece of lint and suddenly stop short, launching my handwriting into a squiggly EKG reading. Congratulations, pen, you’ve made my grocery list look like I’m ordering under duress.

Midway through jotting down a to-do list yesterday, I switched pens in frustration. The second one worked perfectly for exactly three words before quitting in solidarity with the first. I now suspect my pen jar is hosting some kind of underground cult meeting. Fine. Form your collective. Just don’t expect health benefits or a holiday party.

And yes, a branch rat made its daily appearance. Stretched out belly-down on the neighbor’s porch railing like it was sunbathing, holding a single pinecone upright with both paws as if posing for a renaissance painting. Every so often it rotated the pinecone slightly, inspecting it like an art critic, then glanced at me with the serene confidence of someone who’s never had to coax ink from a pen by scribbling geometric shapes.

Anyway — I finally got one pen working long enough to finish the list, but the damage was done. Half of it is in normal script, the other half in increasingly manic shorthand. “Laundry” is written clearly. “Pick up prescription” looks like I tried to autograph the paper during an earthquake.

So until pen technology evolves past “works when it feels like it,” I’ll keep my backup Sharpie on standby. Sure, it bleeds through paper, but at least it never demands proof of commitment first.

“If your pens have started holding you emotionally hostage, please send me their list of demands.”

©2026 Danu Marche