Tales of a Nerd: The Pen License

I have a problem.

My problem is pens. I have around 500 pens stashed away in my room, stored away in various pencil cases, boxes and drawers. Some of them are old and worn, with ends so chewed they look like they belonged to a puppy with a teething problem. Others are brand new, still wrapped in their original packaging with their barrels full of ink. Some of them are remnants from older days of academic glory, "lucky" pens that suffered alongside my carpal tunnel during what felt like an eternity of exams, "sacrificial" pens that were lent out to friends and returned half a barrel later.

For the most part, I can't bring myself to throw away a pen without a very good reason. I make up feeble excuses; "This was a good pen, I can find an ink refill for it sometime!" or "I'm going to keep this pen so I can google its name later and buy a batch."

You see, it all started when I was seven years old. I was a pretty precocious kid (i.e. Asian) and I was accelerated into the third grade under a new "Gifted and Talented" program. At this point, you should try to bear in mind that most third graders are nine years old and absolute shitheads.

One of my most vivid memories from the third grade was watching those little snots receive these painfully tacky little cards with the school emblem printed on them, declaring their right to use a pen. The Pen Licence. It was kind of like this, only with a lot more comic sans.

Back then, teachers still hadn't figured out how to use the "PC" (air quotes) for anything beyond basic word processing and clip art so we didn't get any fancy borders. We didn't get any product placement either.

This one is a more accurate representation.

In retrospect, it was 60% plastic, 20% texta, 15% comic sans and 10000000000% tacky.

But lord help me, I wanted it.

I wanted it so fucking badly. No, I needed it in my life. In my mind, it was the only thing that stood between me and adulthood. Every waking moment of my life was consumed with thoughts of the Pen Licence. My tiny little mind was going to collapse under the the sheer depth and breadth of my need. Fourteen years on, I still can't recall a time in my life where I've wanted anything so badly.  The Pen Licence had the thumbs up by the prime minister and the government had a list of everyone that had their pen licence. If you were caught using a pen without it, you were going to go to a special jail where you had to do More Homework™ to qualify for the pardon examination. If you wanted to buy a goddamn pen, you needed this goddamn licence. The fucking Principle had signed the back of it, and as every seven year old knows, the Principle is the alpha and omega of everything. Not the queen, the prime minister or even god himself could mess with that kind of authorisation.

You can see where this is heading. My teacher kindly took me aside and told me that I still had to work on my grip and cursive, that it was only natural that my handwriting wouldn't be quite on par with The Other Kids because I was so young and I was doing so well already and I was at the top of the class in so many other areas!

He meant well but I was a little put out.

Still haven't forgiven him.

TL;DR: I really wanted a fucking pen license. Many recess and lunchtimes in the library later, I obtained one. It was a pretty intense feeling when my teacher finally handed me one, signing his name with a flourish. To be honest, I think it was more a combination of incredulous disbelief at my stubbornness and pity that he finally granted me one, but that obviously didn't occur to me at the time. I was on cloud number nine the day that I proudly tucked it into the ID holder of my Hello Kitty purse.

During high school, I had the chance to run into him again at a debating competition he was adjudicating. He recognised me, despite the seven or so years it had been since he'd last seen me. He'd gone on to become a high school English teacher and as I was telling him about my plans for university and we were reminiscing, he started laughing. Apparently, a question I had asked him was forever burned into his memory as an educator. With a slightly worried look, the seven year old me had timidly asked; "Sir, when I go to high school and become grown-up, can I still use this licence for my pen? Or do I have to get another one?"