The wholeness of my personality is so great and so big that no words can truly describe the grandeur of my presence, the elegance of my movements and the beauty of my traits.

That’s not something I’m willing to discuss.

However, if you got to ask those big-named people who always beg me trying to get just a piece of my attention to say three things about me, they would start by stating the fact that I’m not an easy person. Again, I’m not willing to discuss that, as it is absolutely true. Greatness isn’t something that comes by itself.

The second thing they would say is that I have an irrational disdain for pens. I’d also agree with that, but it’s a defamation.

My hatred for pens is not irrational.

It is a completely well-sourced, comprehensible and, especially, necessary. Its justification is found, to be precise, in the fact that pens have disgraced my life.

I’m 51 years old, and while the shadow that pens have thrown over my life have, of course, been unable to darken all of my shining talents, they have proven able to make my romantic life a story of nothing but loneliness and melancholy.

One of those key moments in determining my loneliness was when I was 17 years old and, right before a little woman whose attractive was unparalleled (except for me), I decided to give her a beautifully written letter where I confessed all of my love.

Sadly, just before giving it to her, something inexplicable held me from giving the letter to her, sentencing me to this lonely life. When I got back in my house, I realized what impeded me from giving the letter: a stain of ink covered a part of the letter, making it inacceptable for someone of my level to sign something so imperfect.

Another point of my life where pens determined my fate was when they provoked me a lesion in my knee which led to the abrupt ending of my sports career, which included more sports than fingers on my hand and could have had an unbelievable amount of success if it hasn’t been, one more time, for pens.

It was a sunny day: after going to a soccer practice at the door of the stadium, I was preparing to go to a tennis court to play with one or two friends. While admiring myself at a lake near the leaf-covered streets, I felt something trespassing my shoe: in the wake of unconsciousness that pain provokes, I started walking and fell.

Hours after being rescued by bad-smelling and musty paramedics, I was inside a hospital, with my left knee covered in a cast, when I saw a great sting in my right feet: the one I slipped and made me fall.

Trying not to fall a victim of irrationality, I went to my house and, after further inspection, I determined that what trespassed my shoe was, definitely, a pen. Doctors said it was a bug that was inside my shoe, but I don’t believe them: if it was an insect, why didn’t I feel the sting until the moment where I fell?

I could fill a whole book containing my completely rational and unbiased explication on why I hate pens: however, I hate them so much that investing my unvaluable time in them is absolutely unjustified.

Going back on the enjoyable main topic of this story, which is myself, the third fact about me that all people who know me agrees on is that I don’t listen to people.

Of course, I absolutely disagree with that. It’s such an irrational, unjustified and libelous claim that when someone says that, I immediately cut my ties with that person: if they don’t want to listen to the sheer brilliance of my thoughts, why would I want to listen to them saying lies like that “I don’t listen to people”?

People tire me. Being such a great person living in such a rotten world has made me consider that, maybe, it’s just that the fault is in me, because if you see a white point in a black jacket the most logical answer is that it’s just a mote of dust.

However, when my almost-perfect brain tricks itself into thinking such absurd arguments, its brilliance gets evidenced in its instant rationalization of the absurdity of such idea: a white point in a black jacket might be dust, but can also be a diamond.

And I’m sure I’m a diamond.

A diamond whose polish has been endarkened by pens and by the stupid people around it by leaving him in the doors of soccer stadiums.