What's your preferred writing utensil?
What's your preferred writing utensil?
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Gravity cat
the adequately amused
Ballpoint pen. Use pencils, too.
Fountain pen... well since I'm left-handed while writing, it gets awfully smudged.
Fountain pen... well since I'm left-handed while writing, it gets awfully smudged.
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Mechanical Pencils, .5mm 2B lead
But when I use a pen, I love rollerballs, fountain pen is fine, but the smoothness of a rollerball is so very nice....Ball points are only convenient. I am surprised that Rollerball wasn't an option. Does the person doing the poll know about them or that there is a difference?
But when I use a pen, I love rollerballs, fountain pen is fine, but the smoothness of a rollerball is so very nice....Ball points are only convenient. I am surprised that Rollerball wasn't an option. Does the person doing the poll know about them or that there is a difference?
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I'll use anything that'll work. If I need something to write something down I'll get whatever works. Although, if I had to choose, I would definitely choose those multi-colored retractable pens.
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Even Thou I prefer to use a mechanical pencil I don't have own one, so I just use a Ballpoint Pen regularly...
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Mechanical pencil.
I love being precise when I write things down.
Also, they never need sharpening.
I love being precise when I write things down.
Also, they never need sharpening.
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Say mechanical pencil cuz one they help me draw better than anyother kind of pencil and two I just like the way they fell when you hold them in your tight grasp although if you draw and/or write hard like my twin brother you shall stick to a regular #2 pencil ^^'
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Mechanical pencils all the way! Save your hand after long writing sessions, never write on a dull point during an essay, and save trees all at the same time 0w0
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I've been using Ballpoint pens since my middleschool time. I just love the darkness in them when I add the detail to drawings or writing. +o+ Laaaaa
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"I don't have a pencil sharpener, Cooter," she said, glaring at me with her hands on her hips. "I told you that for my class that you will need a mechanical pencil. I've had problems with pencil sharpeners in the past and pencils in general, so just go and get one. They're cheap, much more reliable, and overall better for writing than a no. 2 pencil."
It was at this moment that I realized.... that I realized that perhaps it was like they said. It was like she said. I wasn't like them. I could never be like them. The world was changing and for once, I could see it coming like a Vietnamese sunrise silhouetted by the spinning blades of a dozen black hawks.
Whoosh..... whoosh.... whoosh.... I heard the call. Those silken blades.... I find now, in this moment in my reverie, that this is not the sound of those blades stirring hot ash and silt up from the recently smoldered forest floor to meet my nostrils. It is the sound of my own beating heart. And oh, how it beats. How it pulses. How it reverberates through the classroom, the halls, the cockpit.
"Get in!" My sergeant tells me. "Cooter, stop that!" My teacher screams. These two planes are one and the same. There is no difference.
The smell of napalm stings my throat. Warm blood splashes my face. "Stop it!" She cries. "Get in!" he demands. I hold my ground.
My heart beats faster. I hear the door fling open. Police officers to my left. The Charlie to my right. They ready their guns. They hesitate, as do I, and we both recollect. For a moment, I believe that I might be able to catch a glimpse of their smiles before I hear the first bullet scrape its way through the barrel.
I return the favor, and smile back. Time slows. I watch as the bullet trains itself onto my neck. I could move. I could react. But I don't. Because what then? Because what would that accomplish? What have I been living for all of my life? For this? The bloodied, beaten, battered student twitching lifelessly in my hands. I don't even know the boy's name. The teacher calls it out one more time, but I ignore it. She tells me that he is my friend. The sergeant tells me that he is my friend, begging for submission.
Ah. There it is. Clarity.
"My friend?" I choke and spit after the bullet passes through my esophagus. "My friend..." I grow cold. The police move in. But I am not finished. I am not done. I cannot be. How could I be? I laugh. I laugh and spurt blood from my neck, unable to acknowledge the pain as it can do nothing to contend with the pain I have felt from...... then...
"This is my friend," I cough, holding something up into the fluorescent light of the classroom and burning sun of the prairie. The men hold their ground. I hear one begin to sob. One drops their firearm. And, I wonder.... do they understand? Perhaps....?
"This... is my friend," I say again, not entirely sure how to convey what I wish to pass on to these ignorant fools. Perhaps they try to understand. Perhaps they wish to. But the truth is made abundantly clear... Ever so clear... that they do not understand. And they never will.
I hold my friend close. Not the bloodied and battered one lying next to me. Not the one I assaulted out of rage. Not the one whose flesh I tasted out of fury. The rest of the kids huddle together in one corner of the room. My sergeant leaves me to die. I am.... alone.... With no one but my one, true friend...
My friend is different. She is short. Stubby. Dirty. Blunt. She is just like me. And she says nothing to prove it. Partly because she does not need to. Her worth is written in history. And partly because she cannot speak. I hold her close, and cry...
"Fear not," I sob happily, feeling the life drift out from me. "There is nothing.... Nothing for you to be ashamed of. It happens to the best of us," I tell her. "It happens to those of us who matter... Not these phony suitors. Not these clones. They are the ones who should be ashamed. These mechanical beasts. They fall in line like all the others. They have nothing to offer in terms of creativity, or love, or passion. But you... You have proven yourself, my friend."
I hold her tightly. She is cold.
"Time and time again... you have...."
Time hastens. My breaths cease to be so violent. They cease altogether. The sun sets. Charlie moves on. And I am once again left alone. Dead. The officers survey the aftermath and sully my display of passion with their words.
"So what happened here? What caused all of this?"
"I don't know! He asked me if he could sharpen his pencil and I told him I didn't have a pencil sharpener so he stabbed Billy in the stomach! That's when you guys shot him and he shit his pants and starting hugging his pencil while spouting nonsense!"
True story. Regular pencils > Mechanical
It was at this moment that I realized.... that I realized that perhaps it was like they said. It was like she said. I wasn't like them. I could never be like them. The world was changing and for once, I could see it coming like a Vietnamese sunrise silhouetted by the spinning blades of a dozen black hawks.
Whoosh..... whoosh.... whoosh.... I heard the call. Those silken blades.... I find now, in this moment in my reverie, that this is not the sound of those blades stirring hot ash and silt up from the recently smoldered forest floor to meet my nostrils. It is the sound of my own beating heart. And oh, how it beats. How it pulses. How it reverberates through the classroom, the halls, the cockpit.
"Get in!" My sergeant tells me. "Cooter, stop that!" My teacher screams. These two planes are one and the same. There is no difference.
The smell of napalm stings my throat. Warm blood splashes my face. "Stop it!" She cries. "Get in!" he demands. I hold my ground.
My heart beats faster. I hear the door fling open. Police officers to my left. The Charlie to my right. They ready their guns. They hesitate, as do I, and we both recollect. For a moment, I believe that I might be able to catch a glimpse of their smiles before I hear the first bullet scrape its way through the barrel.
I return the favor, and smile back. Time slows. I watch as the bullet trains itself onto my neck. I could move. I could react. But I don't. Because what then? Because what would that accomplish? What have I been living for all of my life? For this? The bloodied, beaten, battered student twitching lifelessly in my hands. I don't even know the boy's name. The teacher calls it out one more time, but I ignore it. She tells me that he is my friend. The sergeant tells me that he is my friend, begging for submission.
Ah. There it is. Clarity.
"My friend?" I choke and spit after the bullet passes through my esophagus. "My friend..." I grow cold. The police move in. But I am not finished. I am not done. I cannot be. How could I be? I laugh. I laugh and spurt blood from my neck, unable to acknowledge the pain as it can do nothing to contend with the pain I have felt from...... then...
"This is my friend," I cough, holding something up into the fluorescent light of the classroom and burning sun of the prairie. The men hold their ground. I hear one begin to sob. One drops their firearm. And, I wonder.... do they understand? Perhaps....?
"This... is my friend," I say again, not entirely sure how to convey what I wish to pass on to these ignorant fools. Perhaps they try to understand. Perhaps they wish to. But the truth is made abundantly clear... Ever so clear... that they do not understand. And they never will.
I hold my friend close. Not the bloodied and battered one lying next to me. Not the one I assaulted out of rage. Not the one whose flesh I tasted out of fury. The rest of the kids huddle together in one corner of the room. My sergeant leaves me to die. I am.... alone.... With no one but my one, true friend...
My friend is different. She is short. Stubby. Dirty. Blunt. She is just like me. And she says nothing to prove it. Partly because she does not need to. Her worth is written in history. And partly because she cannot speak. I hold her close, and cry...
"Fear not," I sob happily, feeling the life drift out from me. "There is nothing.... Nothing for you to be ashamed of. It happens to the best of us," I tell her. "It happens to those of us who matter... Not these phony suitors. Not these clones. They are the ones who should be ashamed. These mechanical beasts. They fall in line like all the others. They have nothing to offer in terms of creativity, or love, or passion. But you... You have proven yourself, my friend."
I hold her tightly. She is cold.
"Time and time again... you have...."
Time hastens. My breaths cease to be so violent. They cease altogether. The sun sets. Charlie moves on. And I am once again left alone. Dead. The officers survey the aftermath and sully my display of passion with their words.
"So what happened here? What caused all of this?"
"I don't know! He asked me if he could sharpen his pencil and I told him I didn't have a pencil sharpener so he stabbed Billy in the stomach! That's when you guys shot him and he shit his pants and starting hugging his pencil while spouting nonsense!"
True story. Regular pencils > Mechanical