Once upon a time, I was a wooden pencil. Red and green stripes, the colour of Christmas. How boring is it to exist as something as rigid as this, I thought when I was six. Everywhere I looked, I saw more exciting beings than myself. I thought, maybe it's fate, maybe it's karma. But I was lucky to be borned with a rubbery material on top of my head. It helped erase frustrations caused by accidental mistakes done by my owner or her friends whom I don't really like being groped by(they have weird, rough, sweaty palms), but most of the time, it's that four-letter word she really likes doodling on my other friend who's white as ghost. Sadly, I've never got the chance to clearly admire that special word because it's too low below and I have short-sightedness. However, I remembered the way my body swayed every time she held me. One night when she was out with her bunch of sweaty-palmed buddies, I fought my way out out of the rough pouch she zipped me in and subconsciously moved on Monsieur Ghostly White like it's the most natural thing you see a pencil do. Then I gently laid on him and finally saw it. It spelled S.H.H.H. That was the end of me as I knew it.
I wonder how I'd score if I wrote this for an autobiography in primary school. Lol. Tenses, I always messed them up. Still do.
Revamped.
