Today I saw an ad on television; Speaks of a small great invention with which they have composed symphonies, drawn works of art and written poems that are part of universal literature.
I have felt the spark of love sprout inside me and, for this, I want to pay homage from not to what is truly announced, but to the object behind which is hidden: the pen.
Tattoo pencil history
Tattoo pencil. And I will not do it for those great works that are part of universal history, not, but for all those moments in which it was part of my humble private history. Tattoo pencil, that faithful friend who accompanied me throughout my childhood. With which I painted my naive works of art, Mother’s Day gift, I scribbled little hearts pierced with the name of my unrequited love on the margins of the books, chops on the desk that saved me in poorly studied exams.
See also: Tattoo watches with names
He did not complain when he nibbled on his ass until he dyed my teeth (thank goodness that the graphite is not toxic, if not, we would all have died), nor did I reproach myself for losing him for months draped in the lining of a coat by a little hole, or my infidelity with Bic pens
Does anyone know where the pens go? To the same place as the untuned sock, maybe. Or where the lighters go: in the pocket of another. And it was not worth putting the name on the side, in order to finish you finished with four pencils of companions, but without yours.
And flexible plastic, only surmountable by pens of various colors: a wonder.
For all these achievements, why not make a Tattoo pencil one? Why not with his inseparable arch-enemies the pencil sharpener and rubber, with which he maintains a relationship of love/hate?
Cheer up: tattoo one in honor of the one whose name was engraved on your side: it is clear that he would do it.