Did you hear that story about the guy who was totally into writing? And I mean ‘totally’, you could even say that he was obsessed with it. It’s not so much about what he writes, I heard he started writing love letters, would you believe that? Ridiculous. Anyway, with him it’s more about the act of writing as such, he gets a kick out of just holding a pen, apparently – creep. And he’s not only got one pen, mind you, he’s got hundreds of them, literally. Whenever he can get his hands on free pens they give away as advertisement gifts – you know those? – he grabs them by the handfuls, Jesus. And you know why? He just loves the different sounds they make when they glide across the paper and he likes the way that you can feel the friction of the paper you’re writing on, the tiny winy vibrations wandering through the pen to his hand, his fingers and their tips.
That’s why, of course, he also likes having around different sorts of paper, like the cheap stuff you can get in every other shop, either the one with lines on it or the squares – and it does make a difference, you can actually feel those when you move your pen across them – shit, guy even collects all sorts of scrap paper, like when he gets those crappy flyers everyone’s trying to force on you, or receipts from when he buys stuff, he even likes paper napkins and toilet paper – now that of course doesn’t work with every kind of paper, mind you. But lately, he started developing a taste for the high-quality stuff, you know, these types of paper you can only get in fancy shops, hand-made and expensive as fuck and when the paper ran out, he started writing on all sorts of other things, his table, the walls, hell, even the peels of his damn fruit – orange peels smell the best, I have to admit.
Nutcase even started making his own pens when he couldn’t buy the ones that the crazy collectors keep and don’t want to sell – and when he got into jail for trying to steal those. I’m not sure how many birds had to die or how many cats and dogs when he wanted to try out brushes. Somebody even told me that he started collecting human hair, that creepy fuck – because it’s supposed to feel different or some fucked-up shit like that – started showing up at barber shops and hairdresser’s, until nobody wanted to sell him the stuff no more. And then, then there was the thing with the skin, when he started writing all over himself after having run through all sorts of animals and their hides. From top to bottom, top to bottom, would you believe that, he was full of words and letters, started writing himself, you could say, and this is where shit really starts getting crazy.
As soon as he was bored of writing on his own skin, he wanted to try writing on others. Started with hookers, they’ll do anything if you pay them good, but soon enough that wasn’t enough. He’d see someone on the street, be it a pretty woman or an old man, fuck, and asked them if he could write on them, he’d even pay, because when he’d found someone, he really only wanted to write on their particular skin, to feel the tip of his pen wander all over their creases and wrinkles and whatnot and if they didn’t want to, he’d remember them and come back later. Just some weeks ago police finally broke into his flat and shit, they found dozens of human skins, some tanned and brown and others still quite fresh or already mouldy and decomposing. Guess what, writing on those also felt pretty different and all.
What about me? Me, I’m writing this with a run-of-the-mill fountain pen on the back of some old bill with blue ink and I have to say that it sure feels fine, nothing beats that good old combo.