"Can I borrow a pencil?"

No, you may not.

Well, at least not after today.

You sat next to me in class and casually asked to borrow a pencil "to erase something with." Although there were no conditions under which the pencil must be returned, I did expect it to remain more or less in the same condition as I gave it to you. Maybe a little dull at the lead or worn at the eraser; all that is understandable. However when I lent you my pencil, I had no idea that when I would receive it back, it would be but a mangled and pale shadow of its former self.

As you took the pencil in hand, you jammed the eraser into the paper and proceeded to violently rub out whatever you had written with a fury and determinacy that made me wonder "why." Just "why." What could have inspired so much hate within you that you rubbed the paper with such a vicious force that it completely spent the eraser and left marks upon the paper. Was it an outwards expression of angst for the world? A projection of murderous and frustrated feelings? Did you fancy that your inner demons had materialized upon the paper, and would mock you "in the flesh?"

Please tell me what was so important that you had to destroy my only eraser for it. Nearly every day since we became desk neighbors you have asked me if I had an extra pencil, and for all of those days, I have truthfully replied "no." You knew that this pencil was my only one. On top of that, it had my only eraser atop it. I suppose I cannot entirely blame you for not knowing this, however since I am momentarily ticked off, I am going to blame you.

Deep down in the dark recesses of what could be called my heart, I hope that you are psychologically disturbed. This will not only make things more interesting, fun, spontaneous, and violent, but it will also give me an excuse never to lend you and pencils ever again. Perhaps I can loan you wooden dowels instead. It will also remind me never to hitch a ride home with you, borrow money, or buy you a drink.