I was reading in bed this evening when I was struck by an idea - an idea of sheer, brilliant genius, one of those splendid once-in-a-lifetime epiphinies that make you tremble in awe at the depth of your own insight. I ran out into the living room, grabbed a piece of paper and hunted around for a writing implement to record my idea in all it's glory. I grabbed my souvenir pencil from Met State's library off it's place on a bookshelf, set graphite to paper, and then stood motionless in my tightey-whiteys, dismayed.
The pencil - my proof - my only proof - that I'd snuck into the closed library after hours like a ninja, was a cheap, unmarked little pencil of the sort found, well, everywhere, really. As concrete proof of my most masterful exploit ever, it was worthless.
Depressed and on the verge of tears, I went to bed and lay there for some time, feeling lonely and stupid. Eventually I remembered why I was looking for a pencil in the first place, but by then I'd forgotten what the great idea was. I lay there, hugging the alien (in her cat guise), until I fell asleep, still unable to remember my great idea. Oh well, it'll come to me.
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