I have most likely told you (and probably more than once) that my father once bought me a pen for Christmas. I may also have given you some background on how that happened, but I will tell you again anyway.
One Christmas, I told my parents that I was not going to drop any hints, didn't want any of those standby normal gifts (bath sets), etc. I wanted them to get me something that they felt I would like, you know, actually put some thought into it. Right then, my father said he'd get me a pen. I'm sure that while I was telling you this story, I mentioned that I thought he was joking. Whatever I might have thought, when it was finally Christmas, my father kept his word, and gave me a pen. A pen with the price tag on it. I was noticeably disappointed.
He thought that maybe the price tag wasn't up to par with my standards.
Iridium fountain pen nib, macro.
Thinking
ThinkingThat had nothing to do with it. I was saddened to say the least that when my father took the time (did he?) to think of me, a pen came to mind. A pen? I'm no writer, I don't think he thought so either. Perhaps it was a play on the word that means lice? My father thought I scratched my head too much maybe? Whatever that meant, I had no idea, I doubted it was anything good.
Regardless of how I felt or what I thought, I kept that stupid pen. It is probably the only pen that I do not lend out, misplace, chew, drop, or lose. It isn't spectacular by any means, but it writes well, and it looks nicer than most pens. It is has an unassuming, not too flashy, not at...