Pen karma got me the other day.
I have this habit of stabbing Biros into my hair at work. I think it's a waitress thing, stemming from the need to have some sort of writing implement always close to hand. Rather than scrabbling around like an unprofessional eejit, muttering "Just let me find that pen..." under your breath while a customer is rattling off at speed what feels like a hundred modifications to every meal order for a group of twelve, you can just pluck one from the bird's nest on your head.
Usually I'm quite well behaved, de-penning my hair at the end of the day (because functioning pens are rare creatures indeed), but on my way home the other week I found one still lurking there, like a stowaway making a break for freedom. I threw it in my bag, making a mental note to return it next day, thinking if I didn't then it'd burst at some point just to piss me off and punish me for stealing an oh-so-precious cheap Biro.
Turns out mental notes aren't that reliable. I never did return it. Turns out I was also right, because there is was: that inky, tacky mass all over the inside of my bag that can only signify a pen explosion.
Damn you, pen karma, damn you. But then, I suppose it is all my own fault, really, for tempting the wrath of the Gods of Cheap Biros. Lesson learned*.
* And that explains why there are now two more pens hiding out in my bag waiting to be returned to work... Eh, no one's perfect.