I was reincarnated as a magic marker. You may think that’s pretty sad, but I think it’s great. I’m bold. I’m black. And I never fail to make an indelible impression.
What’s more, I’m in love. With “Mocha.” She’s a colored pencil. Did I say that? What I meant to say is that she’s a graphite American. She’s got a lovely medium brown shade and lemme tell you—she’s a smooth one.
So, I go up to Mocha and I’m trying to keep my cool, not flip my cap, not dribble ink. I take a deep breath and I say, “How’s is going, sista?” Only I don’t say it. Markers can’t actually talk. But I write it, in big flowing letters. I deliver my message with a flair.
Mocha is unimpressed.
I was a tiny bit discouraged, I admit. I decided on an indirect approach. There’s this new construction site with lots of plywood fences around it, and I decided that—if I play my cards right—Mocha would be able to read the writing on the wall and I’d be able to impress her.
So, I got to work starting with a little doodling and then getting fancier until I created this romantic masterpiece. Mocha won’t be able to help herself. She’ll be deeply moved, unless she’s made of wood.
So, I’m waiting and Mocha finally comes by, looking real sharp. She looks at my artwork, my big public declaration of love. She turns to me and I notice for the first time, she IS made of wood.
She tries to be nice about it. “Sharpie,” she says. “You are a very attractive marker. I’m flattered and tempted. But we’re so different from each other. It would never work out.”
There’s no denying it. She has a point.