The bangs hanging in front of my eyes are intolerably too long. I scribble the name of my hairdresser, Sean, on the top layer of my orange Post-it Note stack in black ink.
I don't know if you've noticed, but I only write with black ink, preferably from a Pilot pen. Any other color is simply not professional for either of my professions and Pilot pens have a special place in my heart. I don't have ink stains on the interior of my organ, but I assume that you fully comprehend my previous statement. My father wrote to me while he was in prison with a blue Pilot and I wrote him back in black.
My bottom desk drawer is stocked full of fans' gifts, publishing companies' holiday presents (which I see as business deals in disguise), and I even own a $2300 encased gold and black fountain pen. It sits on my laboratory office desk in plain sight, but not one my off-the-scale, intelligence marked staff has been able to analyze its existence. If they have, they certainly have not made their findings clear to me. The official name of that pen is called the "Parker Limited Edition Duofold Mackie Fountain Pen". In fact, that could possibly be why he chose that particular fountain pen. It is all speculation as I have no concrete evidence to back up my theory. Could it be that a father wanted to find a connection with his son, or that he wanted me to? I do not know. I dust my "Parker" pen almost as often as Booth walks through my door – not for that reason, though.
I'm sorry for going off topic so suddenly. I meant to begin the writing process of my new novel, "Where There's A Will", but I always do my writing after hours in my office. I should probably move my literature work into my apartment, but everywhere I go my mind still wanders. Possibly, I'm finally discovering inspiration from these past years I've spent studying people. I don't need Angela anymore – for writing a scene, that is.